Whispers Autumn
Now / again / when it’s too late, begin / especially then / old friend. November 24, 2021 . [ 1300 ]
Archive for November 2021
Incidental
Shown by a leaf — service is not a doctrine, but the heart of the tree. November 23, 2021 . [ 1299 ]
Still Here
The wind chime, practicing for winter — bare feet on the cold morning floor. November 23, 2021 . [ 1298 ]
Stirring the Ashes
Which is the greater fallacy — that we can know what is coming, or that we can be prepared? * For the latest news, see the cutting room floor. * Nothing dies. In its own time and at its own pace, everything becomes something else — the leaf, the cloud, the body, the star, the stone. What we see is a graceful dance and fleeting references to energy. * We […]
The Misty Presence
At thirty-seven degrees in the canyon, with everything dripping, the falls roaring, and the stream running high, it didn’t take long for the soles of my bare feet and the thin foot bed of my sandals to become soaked and coated with mud. But I never felt cold. Twice, farther on, I washed them together in the swiftly moving water, which was not only cleansing and invigorating, but felt positively […]
Thanksgiving
When the apple on the table met the one in my mind, they spoke of the distance between blossom and knife. And I of this childhood at the end of my life. November 20, 2021 . [ 1295 ]
The Last Word
If, in the end, what we have written or told is only a story, That, too, is well, because it is the very same thing that life has done. And even given our last word, the story goes on. See us in the Index, under Ocean, Under Flight, under Stone. . [ 1294 ]
Old Friends
We stay together, this body and mind. And we are still, even when we go wandering. November 19, 2021 . [ 1293 ]
To End and Begin
Everything I write is meant for an audience of one. I address no group, large or small, and I don’t spray my words scattershot with the idea that if I aim high enough, they’re sure to hit someone. No, I’m still the farm boy I’ve always been, with a homemade slingshot and the nearest clod. And if you happen to be the one I clobber, I apologize. In person, I’m […]
Feathers and Dust
When once we see everything is a flower — from wayward child to walnut shell, changing sky to ancient, mottled hand — we understand that no measurement or value can express the shimmering grace of this world. Life is so fine and so rare, it cannot be fathomed by means of comparison, or appreciated on such narrow, limiting terms. Just as there is profound strength in the whole, the individual […]
William Michaelian 