I awoke this morning to the sun shining on the lake. A glorious blaze. I awoke this morning to the brook roaring in its course down to the lake, carrying my tangled thoughts on its silver back. Good, let them drown. I awoke this morning to the robin's unceasing three-note trill accompanied by the breeze soughing in the maples. Robin knows something my language can't describe but his song is not meant for me.
I awoke to the world this morning, in the daily miracle of waking, of coming to, of lying still in the stream as the day, in its simple splendor, composed itself around me and in me and of me. I suspect the routine senseless repetition of events is more than the routine senseless repetition of events, but I don't know what it is. Heart doesn't know, head doesn't know.
I awoke this morning and came back to the world of muscle, bone, and blood, and felt the stretch and strain of it, and caught the smell and sight of it, and listened for the sound of it. The bodily world, this astonishing body upon which all else rests. What is it, to be comfortable in your own body? A measure of freedom, yes, to be peaceful, to be able to sit still, to let the world touch you back and not flinch. Okay. Breathe then. Arise and enter the ceaseless stream, to be carried outward, into the world. The green world, scrubbed and scoured, blameless, clean, the renewed world. There's so much to do in the world where you have your being.
Today I am scared at the thought of dying and vastly ignorant about the meaning of life.