95.

no one can enter the river wearing the garments of public and collective ideas. he must feel the water on his skin. he must know that immediacy is for naked minds only, and for the innocent.
-thomas merton, raids on the unspeakable

Dear Life,

I envision an evening light coming through the maples and the pines and those old wise oaks on an evening in Fall. I’m walking, one boot in front of the other, all scuffed up and dirty from months of living and weeks of wandering, but I’m walking. I’m not running, life, because I’d rather walk. Even if the winds pick up and whistle into my ear that I should speed up, I wanna keep walking. Even if the clouds bully the evening sunrays and push them far away from my face. I want to keep walking. One sorry old boot in front of the next. I want to walk, not run. If I walk I can notice the whistling past my ear, and the disappearing beams ahead. I can even catch a glimpse of the porcupines waddle and hear the tweedle-dees of the bird family nestling in for the evening. These are things that I hold dear. The details. They are you, life. They are mine to keep and to notice and to pull in tightly, closely; my attentiveness will keep them warm, my pockets are deep enough to hold them all. Life, you ask so much of me and I ask of you to be kind and patient with me. I will live you every beautiful day, I will listen for your offerings, I will smile and nod and accept what you have to give me.

I will craft you as I see fit. I will do right by you.

More importantly I will do right by those nestling birds, those whistling winds, and those pocketful of little things that I just can't run past.

Yours sincerely,

C.