Cold Sunday in the office, snow piling up outside, the vision of tiny hands touching the flakes for the first time, nostalgia. I call my son. He says it's not snowing there. All day, I drift into the window pane between tedious computer work. The fight to stay alive in the human realm. Feeding the soul requires a little dip and snuff -- I peruse the bluegrass postings on youtube, listen to songs in between posting grades. My feet never warm.
Sundays too, I get up early. The dog at my bedside, the reminders of the way into the wilderness. For a Sunday or two, I have to check back, lean into the blinking cursor and find the snowflakes' envy, the warmth of a rapt attention to detail. Time skips toward darkness. I drive to Raley's to buy some chicken for dinner. Baking it with garlic and rosemary, walking the dog in evening snowfall, the crunch underfoot, sensing the pierce of stars around the billowing gray curves of clouds, I find the slight inclination of spirit. This is all there is. I could walk until midnight if there was somewhere to go.
The chicken won't wait; the oven is on. I have to press on past the lighted alleys and decorated homes in midwinter glamour to find the flavor full and sweet inside.
I like this. My favorite line: Feeding the soul requires a little dip and snuff --
Hmmm, the fight to stay alive in the human realm. To stay present, at least for me. I think many check out, are absent while present. It is a deep temptation, but in the end something I'm never really able to do.
Posted by: Chris Boese | December 17, 2008 at 10:48 AM