I slept for a few minutes yesterday after lunch. When I awoke to the tender tips of the lacy green maple moving in the breeze, and the pine needles glistening in the light of the clear blue sky, and its swirl of upward-curved branches gently lowering and rising, I was nigh overwhelmed by the timeless, trembling, whispering intimacy of what was happening, not only outside, beyond the open window, but inside, in the summer-scented, pollen-filled room. It is happening still.
July 7, 2021
The Fear of Death and the Desire to Be Remembered
It was their little ritual. Every day, the fear of death and the desire to be remembered joined hands at the precipice. Looking down, looking at each other, trembling, the fear of death said, “You first.” And the desire to be remembered replied, “But no one is watching. Let’s wait and see if anyone comes.”
The precipice yawned. “It’s always the same with you two,” it said. “Why don’t you go home and talk it over. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Finally, one day, feeling braver than usual, the fear of death and the desire to be remembered came to the very edge, and — some say they jumped; some say they slipped and fell; some even say they were moved by a great moral earthquake. Or was it birth?
No matter. No precipice either. Only the sweet blue —
Recently Banned Literature, April 6, 2018
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