Last night, the crescent Moon nested in the pin oak and I took a gazillion frozen, fuzzy pictures of Her out the back door. However frustrating, it felt like a worthy endeavor if for no other reason than reverence.
Then I heard the voice of my friend (the real photographer) in my mind: turnaround…what are you missing behind you? So I did, and there in the dining room was Kit working on the fingering of a song on her harp.
She was playing Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah and everything around her was warm and glowing with reverence.
We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are.
Sheep lice do not seem to share this longing, which is one reason
why they write so little.
~ Anne Lamott
I mean I’m actually happy, she told me, adding, “but this, too, shall pass,” which made us both laugh.
“I’m telling YOU these things because you’re one of only three people I can talk to like this, and the other two I pay to listen to me.”
Then all breathy and plosive she said she was seeing a time traveler and gave several plausible verifications of this claim. Her voice sounded like singing the high parts of harmony. I said, yeah, I get it, humming along.
“See, that’s why I can talk to you…so few people get this. Seriously, who says ‘I’m a time traveler,’ and refuses to even use his real name?”
I told her, well, in my experience, all time travelers talk like that.
I don’t know where I’m going anymore
I find myself a table and chair.
I wait, I don’t know what I’m waiting for,
I change the room, the country, I compare
my clattering armored glitz to your spare
weaponry of light, your refined address.
I know you stand where none of us would dare.
I know you kneel where none of us would guess,
Well-ordered and alone, huge heart, self-pitiless.
~ Leonard Cohen (Stanzas for H.M.)
photo by H. Kistler
Once it reaches land, the winter gale glaciates the horizon…I see the lake effect coming far off the big sea water an hour before it will require a rope strung between my front door and the garage to find my car. If I’m exaggerating, it’s because my mind is snowblind and can’t see the edges of reality anymore. It’s 59 degrees in my ice cave I mean house this morning (not exaggerating). I can feel the wind wailing through every part of me that’s not already numb. I’m standing in front of the open oven door trying to keep my head out of it…hoping to thaw a sense of gratitude for the surreal beauty around me…a big whimper calving off my attitude… I can take the winter, but I am so feckin’ sick of this cold.