Yesterday when the sun turned the sky orange S made a big fire with mesquite and alder, and grilled pork chops and chicken galore for friends visiting. We talked after dinner about difficulties in living honestly and simply, about how it is necessary to pause and consider the ramifications of words or actions with the intent to benefit others and not only to gain personally. Self-importance keeps us alive on a day to day basis, and fighting the impulse to gain at the expense of others is a difficult task, not only because that basic ego spills over into everything we do, but also because our culture prides itself on the fastest hardest meanest shiniest biggest best.
Selflessness, and giving without expectations, and seeking peace and equanimity, these are the difficult things. For a long time I thought English was limited by having only one word for love, but now it makes sense to me. There should only be love as it should be. And love is as blind as justice when it is true.
Two days ago I squinted into the sky and saw mares tails chasing high and wispy across the blue, omens of incoming clouds. The wind blew chilly like a train whistle at the witching hour and my little black cat yowled at the door to be let inside. The dogs a whimper and frustration while unable to fall into slumber. An early bedtime does not guarantee a long sleep. Something breathed and exhaled in the western ocean, stretched tendrils of awareness awakeness and irritation. Venus sank gracefully again into the sea after her evening display.
Bare branches on the tree with limbs like dogs legs rattled high above the house, and the chimney flue howled. The gust ended as suddenly as it began and a thousand souls turned over, troubled in their dreams. Every sound, even those imagined, became a prickle on the skin, nerves jangled, eyes straining to see into the night.
The sandman did not find our house last night; no dreams conjured, no rest. We lay limbs entwined and counted the heartbeats between us in the dark stillness; the house creaked and sighed and settled as the earth rolled around again.
Selflessness, and giving without expectations, and seeking peace and equanimity, these are the difficult things. For a long time I thought English was limited by having only one word for love, but now it makes sense to me. There should only be love as it should be. And love is as blind as justice when it is true.
Two days ago I squinted into the sky and saw mares tails chasing high and wispy across the blue, omens of incoming clouds. The wind blew chilly like a train whistle at the witching hour and my little black cat yowled at the door to be let inside. The dogs a whimper and frustration while unable to fall into slumber. An early bedtime does not guarantee a long sleep. Something breathed and exhaled in the western ocean, stretched tendrils of awareness awakeness and irritation. Venus sank gracefully again into the sea after her evening display.
Bare branches on the tree with limbs like dogs legs rattled high above the house, and the chimney flue howled. The gust ended as suddenly as it began and a thousand souls turned over, troubled in their dreams. Every sound, even those imagined, became a prickle on the skin, nerves jangled, eyes straining to see into the night.
The sandman did not find our house last night; no dreams conjured, no rest. We lay limbs entwined and counted the heartbeats between us in the dark stillness; the house creaked and sighed and settled as the earth rolled around again.
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