I was going to write - had begun to write, last night - that my idea of winter turns out to be everyone else's idea of spring: it rains and everything turns green. Last week we took March's word for it and traded Sorels and down jackets for rain pants and mud boots. But today it snowed, big sugar flakes that hardly accumulated at all (though just enough for the snow-and-hot-maple-syrup that the season had almost slipped away without). He is at class; Thursday evenings now are the only time I am at home alone. If our bathtub wasn't crap I'd take a bath, but writing is maybe better than that. There is blues on the radio, but I'll play my guitar in a while. Read some more of Beth's book. The tea is almost ready.
I miss the monastery. I miss that valley and the river and the impossible silence of a hundred people in still meditation. I miss the schedule, the almost imperceptible relaxation of some part of the mind when it knows there are no decisions to be made - get up at this time, go to work at this time, wear this robe, bathe now, eat this, go to bed. Maddening, of course, but not more so than balancing my checkbook, buying gas, reading the newspaper. I miss the community of people who value self-reflection, honesty, and compassion. Guest season is starting up again, the navel-gazing eyes turning outward after six months of darkness, the buds bursting, the rains slowing. Everything turns green. A part of my soul is yearning for it. A part of my soul will I think always yearn towards that place. The spirit home.
He is a spirit home as well, though, the true home of my heart I told him when I called after that summer in the monastery. That's why I'm in this place where my winter never comes but only the snow. He is my community of self-reflection, honesty and compassion. He is my winding dirt road along the river, my bright bright stars. And I am also my own home. I think the crocuses will be alright, and the robins don't seem to be bothered by April's treason. Already it is melting, and the grass is still green below.
I miss the monastery. I miss that valley and the river and the impossible silence of a hundred people in still meditation. I miss the schedule, the almost imperceptible relaxation of some part of the mind when it knows there are no decisions to be made - get up at this time, go to work at this time, wear this robe, bathe now, eat this, go to bed. Maddening, of course, but not more so than balancing my checkbook, buying gas, reading the newspaper. I miss the community of people who value self-reflection, honesty, and compassion. Guest season is starting up again, the navel-gazing eyes turning outward after six months of darkness, the buds bursting, the rains slowing. Everything turns green. A part of my soul is yearning for it. A part of my soul will I think always yearn towards that place. The spirit home.
He is a spirit home as well, though, the true home of my heart I told him when I called after that summer in the monastery. That's why I'm in this place where my winter never comes but only the snow. He is my community of self-reflection, honesty and compassion. He is my winding dirt road along the river, my bright bright stars. And I am also my own home. I think the crocuses will be alright, and the robins don't seem to be bothered by April's treason. Already it is melting, and the grass is still green below.
