4-7-08

There is a difference between writing for a purpose, and
noting words along the Way.  Catching the
wonder words that come to me through the bushes, trees and birds, is like
playing lacross with the Divine.  I hold
my net alert and the juicy fruit comes towards me or near me or whispers to me
from the brush and I swing the net and catch it.  Once in my capture, it instantly shrivels a
bit.  I put descriptions on it, I quickly
tie it down to my small piece of paper, scribbing with a pen that hardly works
with sleepy eyes and tired hands.  Through
the redundant thrashing about trying to be still for truth and beauty and life
there comes a gift.

No words resemble the Divine.  It is like a child with crayons with her
first depiction of a bird–stick wings, circle inside circle of body, no eyes,
perhaps one twiggy leg.  “LOOK MOM!”  And mom hesitates, says “Wow, that’s
terrific!” In the hopes that the child names it for her.  I must expect that these tiny markings on the
screen, transcribed sometimes from small marks on tiny cards, are less than
pointing at the moon.  Look in the sky:
clouds!  My finger shoots up to the
heavens–see the stars?!?!

Obvious and ambiguous, obscure and passionate, I falter
especially when I try to explain to you rather than to sit in the wonder.  Breathing deeply, meditatively, endlessly
stretching that wombl-like country between the breathes–that s what I would
describe to you.  Instantaneous
fascination with the jewel gurgling water rapids as I pour it into my
teacup.  Brilliant timeless stunning
awareness of the mystery of the pure child’s wide eyes holding up his
motorcycle toy.  And even that sinking in
the couch, anchor-less inertia that plagues the moments between moments when
all human purpose seems hysterically useless–there, being held by the Divine
Hand, snuggled with the loving soft angels, across the table from the Friend
who allows me to dive drunk into her love–that is what I want to tell you
about.