The Lake Where Things Are Lost

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Can you name one who is to be spared?


We are all for the bone yard.


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I feel blessed to be where I am, still drawing breath. I just went and stood on the front porch, in the sunlight and cold air. The sun is going down and it floods across the yard through the arbor, all golden, firing up the tulips and daffodils and the brick path and the green weeds, making no distinction among them, painting them all alike. The dog is asleep in a patch of sunlight, too, soaking up the warmth of it.

I got my small troubles, just like you do. I got my portion of blessings and then some. I work at opening my small and flinty heart. I throw myself at my many failures yet again. I love with abandon and don't begrudge it.

Of late I have been astounded at the physical world and am learning to find in it all of the magic and wildness I once sought in religion or spirituality or god or magic or what have you. I see now that it was my paltry imagination that was to blame, for I could not apprehend the vast wild strangeness of my own visible world. I sought out some other thing, as if this world were drab and lifeless and boring, when there could not exist a thing more strange and wonderful and limitless and mysterious, unknowable.

I will go to my grave without understanding much more than I do right now, but that's okay. I won't stop trying.

I am glad for this life.


I am glad for it all.



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Namaste.



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