Took a look at the blog stats last night and noticed someone had read some of the most interesting posts and debated whether I would mention it or not and stayed silent just to see what would happen.
Might have remained quiet but choose otherwise and though I could blame it upon destiny, fate, fortune or a larger bottle of Passover wine I won’t.
Maybe it is because I stumbled across a post I wrote a year ago and something about it jumped out at me. Actually it was multiple somethings but all I’ll point out here is a quote.
I’ll let you wonder if the artist is taking artistic license or if there is something else because if you are supposed to understand and you want to, you will.
Things aren’t all so tangible and sayable as people would usually have us believe; most experiences are unsayable, they happen in a space that no word has ever entered, and more unsayable than all other things are works of art, those mysterious existences, whose life endures beside our own small, transitory life
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
Updated quite a few places today with a sense that what I have anticipated is imminent and I am good with that because it all fits in that sixth sense that makes me wonder who might be watching or feeding me information.
Don’t care if that sounds like nonsense or makes no sense because some of you know of those unexpected connections and moments that make you remember the magic you thought you had forgotten or maybe never believed in.
A White Undershirt
Dad had a habit of buying white undershirts in larger quantities and I took a bunch that he never got around to wearing.
Been walking around the house in one all evening and found myself standing in the garage going through my tool chest looking for a specific screwdriver when I heard a neighbor yell “Alan.”
Or at least I thought I did, wasn’t entirely sure because only one ear was uncovered. Might have caught my attention because it is one of Dad’s screwdrivers I was looking for and he might have been on my mind a bit.
Except I almost never heard anyone except Mom call him Alan as it was his middle name.
Makes me chuckle because if I heard Joshua Daniel coming from either of their lips chances are it wasn’t because they wanted to praise me.
Same deal with Dad, if I heard Mom use both names in conjunction I knew he had gotten her attention and probably not in a good way though to be clear, it was rare to hear that.
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It is not uncommon to find me in the garage as it is one of the few spaces here I can call my own…mostly.
Given all of the together time caused by the pandemic I have been heading there with increasing regularity as I need a little more space, a little more quiet to confer with my own thoughts and ideas.
It is where Brother Pablo and I pulled apart the full text of One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII and I asked him to explain how he could write that well in two languages.
Brother Pablo smiled and told me I already spoke multiple languages and could accurately interpret that which was said in silence or left unheard.
I nodded, said “aye” and wondered if that came from my Irish relatives or if perhaps there are some Scottish I don’t know about.
“There is a castle that awaits my return and one day soon I shall enter it, the time is imminent.”
Brother Pablo smiled at me and said “Si nada nos salva de la muerte, al menos que el amor nos salve de la vida.”
I said “Amen” and we sat in silence watching a master painter throw brushstrokes upon the sky and waited for twinkling lights to help us imagine a new future.
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