This Sunday Morning

Quiet, fan buzz, odd white fuzz of noise, just low. It sits, droning, not asking for attention, no demands or connection, mindlessly spurting sound. Leaves flicker, a quiet bounce, the lighter leaves only move, the heavier branches of fir and pine stay, nearly, still. Though the friendless sun has risen recently, the calming grey of elevated moisture diffuse the abusive rays. Tranquility sits with us, amidst the moisture, the amazing gentleness of morning dew. Today a few trees bare foreshadowing of the month to come. A japanese maple gains hints of orange, dreaming of the coming slumber.

My mind, being what it is, loves to race. I try to consume Snyder’s work, but that over-active mind hurries. Much like gulping down a 5 star meal, prepared by a master. A crime, it is, to cram this down one’s gullet, a race to consume the next item, to find some other nonsense for our limited attention. Perfection demands attention! True perfection, that is, not the abused notion of over accomplishment and the doom of overwork. For this mindset, time is god. How much have I done? Measuring one’s worth in the length of a to-do list. Noticing the leaves move, a gentle, wandering dance, lost. As the leaves move, maples faster, but all of them together, each leave at the same speed as the others; firs and pines also, just slower. Enslaving myself to the modern mindset sacrifices these moments.

Is it any wonder, then, that we are engorged? We can not consume enough. Our bellies expand, trying to capture that empty place where our souls should be. As our legs give out, we have forgotten so much. Bodily bulk weighs more than the dense soul, which not only adds not bulk to our beings, but lightens life.

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