Alternating between two wide dirt roads on either side of an even wider river, my father driving, asking which road I preferred, changing directions in mid-air, crossing the water and lightly touching down, then continuing on . . . I said any road is fine, they all lead in the right direction — not because I knew, but because he was happy, and I wanted him to go on enjoying […]
Now / again / when it’s too late, begin / especially then / old friend. November 24, 2021 . [ 1300 ]
Shown by a leaf — service is not a doctrine, but the heart of the tree. November 23, 2021 . [ 1299 ]
The wind chime, practicing for winter — bare feet on the cold morning floor. November 23, 2021 . [ 1298 ]
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 […]
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 […]
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 ]
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 ]
We stay together, this body and mind. And we are still, even when we go wandering. November 19, 2021 . [ 1293 ]
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 […]
William Michaelian 