Longest Lesson in the Learning

1.

There, under the muffy yellow light and the freckles of toothpaste on the mirror, are a string of floss and a bobby pin, cast into the trashcan or unevenly on the side. It is not entertaining, it is not engaging; not motivating, adventurous, a dream or a granted hope. I look far away over the muffy room, beyond the hum-drum of the electric toothbrush. There, on the sunny, crowd-centered bench, are friends, eyes creased, of humor, shoulders arched back, enjoyed. And for a second, even under this muffy light, an invisible string pulls me up from lethargy, and I throw back my arms in ready energy.

Yet fingers stab a hole into the thin, parchment-like paper. Nothing, not the sunny bench, nor eyes-creased friends, nor enjoyment, are solidly before me. I have lived countless moments, yet none my own. I must replenish myself fully in my full Storehouse, be alive and propelled on ground I touch.

2.

Days and days are to come; new September year and influx; new opportunities, paces (and I do mean 'pace,' not 'place'), communities; you have scarcely ventured into the canyon, the majesty; storming, awe-struck, capturing beauty is much up ahead, an unexpected downpouring and hanging fog that clears. Now the yet unseen looming clouds beckon. The splattering drive up the canyon is condensing, and I say to it, “Come.” I am comforted again.

3.

Let these memories become part of my being. 

When you suffocate and pain is you being, close your eyes and pull them down through your skin, bones, heart. Absorb them in such a way that they metamorphosize as oxygen. Feel them into the energy source of a cable car—they must become permanent fuel.

Feel them into your muscle memory. And then, when you are cutting tomatoes, imagine a light shining through the window onto a sliver of the cutting board, and be there in each cut.

4.

The image that comes to my mind is this: I am half-turned on the street. A wind blows my hair a fraction over my face: wistful, solemn, suspended. My hard-lined mouth & eyes reflect in the window of the shop I’m standing in, half of my face clear—the glass shatters—this moment was fragile. Some moments are not mine to collect and own—as I walk along the street I am fully aware of their impermanence or changeability, temporariness. I do not feel like I can take, and keep, and call them my storehouse.

Yet some moments are mine, I have strength for my heart. They can settle deep in my heart, the floating clear box can settle at the bottom, filled with clear-sighted colorful stones. So as I gaze upon a tree with its magnificently shaped branches, I can let warmth sit at the ocean-bottom of my heart, and release sprinting daydreams.