A clear sky, frost, stars, and a waning moon. While walking this morning it occurred to me again that this body of mine is the world; and that what I notice, and my particular way of noticing it, reflects what is taking place in me on a cellular-spiritual level. The unforgiving concrete and asphalt, the falling leaves, the ripening fruit, the winding paths, the downed trees, and shimmering waterfalls — perhaps this, in part, is what Thoreau meant in his journal when he said, The poet writes the history of his body. My world is an autobiography of willing, tired feet, and of a digestion subject to bouts of Oxford commas.
November 21, 2019