I wake as usual in a bitter lonely funk and go through the morning motions as always, half-there, ruminating on the death of a notion of family that exists nowhere anymore, so why mourn?
And having portioned out the kibble and seed and porridge among the House creatures that pass for my family now, poor things, I retire to trailer with my bowl and my mug to break my own fast while scrolling through my iPhone apps for news of the day, then take up my pen and my book.
In my little SylviaSanctuary, redone now and so sweetly blue.
I glance up from the text beyond my reading glasses to notice the peace of the scene, the rumpled comfort of it, and the breathing animals. And from outside declared and redeclared the innocence of sparrows and the dreamlike everpresent approach and retreat like oceanwaves of big rigs on the highway.
And I remember again, as I did when I was 40 and 20 and 12 and 4 and anguished from isolation, how beautiful and perfect things can be in the instant, the pedestrian Now, and all misery and loss and abandonment - that's what actually constitutes illusion.
Dear Sam, this whole post could be and I think actually is a poem which you must save as such, especially the part about the sparrows who declare and redeclare of course they do but I didn't think of it before and it really touches what's left of my heart. So thanks.
ReplyDeleteThank you for saying so.
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