Frost and the long low light of the winter solstice. The tree tells of the old stretching out into the new, entwined together as they must be, neither one nor other but both.
The lips of the bark speak of beauty and pain. Neither one nor other but both, as they must be.
And the lichen on the bark says whoa, look at us! bright gold crinkled and crunkled like a landscape, like mud, like the moon! We too are not one, not other but both. Beautiful, omnipresent. There for the delighting in if you but see. And those craters that you’re staring at? they’re our genitals so stop being such a voyeur if you please.
Er, thanks, lichen! All very intercomingly.
At this crux, hinge or whatever one cares to call it, this moment when one traditionally looks back to the source, forward to the mouth, I found myself writing to a friend about the midstream, about that place called “the present” in which I have increasingly found refuge:
“A place where things matter as much as they matter and don’t spiral out of control, don’t tangle up the past and wrap their tentacles around the future. “Resignation” and “acceptance” give the wrong impression. It’s a far more active and joyful thing, I find. I appear to have become rather Pollyannaish. Although having just looked up the definition on Wikipedia expecting it to be slightly other than it was I find that it’s not a bad thing to be at all… it’s not optimism (which implies looking forward) such as gratitude in the here and now which is important.
“Which is not to say that it hasn’t been a challenging year if I look back, which one invariably does at this time. However so much has changed and there is so much to be thankful for. Chief of which is the love of friends.”
To all friends, both near and far, who read here and who don’t, serenity-love-gratitude-joy.