Illness is a kind of winter. It strips the green, leaving only the
bare, peeling branches of your life; but it opens the sky. The view
widens. It is a new season, only that. You know it will get colder. You
know ice is coming. You retreat indoors; inside.
Reading MFK Fisher, I see that I know nothing, really, of pain; and less of those who live with — who love — the person in pain.
I am in a between
place. I feel change coming — which, I suppose, is appropriate to the
season. I sit on the deck, alone, late in the night, smoking in the
snow.
I shall accept T.’s offer of a tree, cut from his
property in advance of the power company saws. We will put it on the
deck, and decorate it with icicle lights and the Buddhist prayer flags
K. gave me for my birthday. I will welcome this solstice and whatever
darkness and light it brings.
I don’t know who I am. I am no-one. I am a dark vessel, waiting.
[Crossposted from Watermark]
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