Ashes at All Costs

An owl surprises me with a sudden swoop from the backyard oak, dipping low for just a moment before merging back into arriving night. I hear them more often than I see them, so I consider this convergence a portent. Endowment and essence is everywhere.

To what shall
I liken the world?
Moonlight, reflected
in dewdrops
shaken from a crane's bill.

~Eihei Dogen

Morning mist hovers in fall fields. What I cannot see becomes mysterious – a seed of potential discovery. One could say this about the abyss too, no? One is boundless in the falling, subjected to the unknown, and yet, the potential energy building towards that which has not yet been discovered. Writing is like that – moving towards the unknown – potentially revealing what was truly known all along — maybe just hidden for a while.

Sometimes I am afraid of the unknown. I forget that I am without edges; that I, too, am constantly unfolding and entering the mysterious. In fact, I am the mysterious.

Sipping pu'erh tea as sunrise slants over what is left of the garden. The smell of ash and dew in the fire pit reminds me of that Leonard Cohen quote, “Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.” The smell also lingers in my favorite sweatshirt and reminds me of how his shirt smelled when I buried my face in his shoulder for the first time. I spread ashes over the garden, planting love at all costs.

Poetry club – cabin in the U.P. – mushrooms. Mediation on the rotation. Finding my people. Finding my tribe. Every moment starting again.