Meus Grifos

Yes, that's it. A flash in the old words. All the steps Of our life rising in the distance like a blessed Sea, lit by a blade of live water. We no longer need Harrowing images in order to love. That tree over there is enough for us, loosed From itself by light, knowing nothing But the almost uttered name of an almost incarnate god. And this high land burnt by the One in its nearness, And this white-washed wall that simple time Touches with its hands that know no sadness And have made their measure.

He was lying under a tree, licking up the shade. Hello again, Fox, I said. And hello to you too, said Fox, looking up and not bounding away. You’re not running away? I said. Well, I’ve heard of your conversation about us. News travels even among foxes, as you might know or not know. What conversation do you mean? Some lady said to you, “The hunt is good for the fox.” And you said, “Which fox?” Yes, I remember. She was huffed. So you’re okay in my book. Your book! That was in my book, that’s the difference between us. Yes, I agree. You fuss over life with your clever words, mulling and chewing on its meaning, while we just live it. Oh! Could anyone figure it out, to a finality? So why spend so much time trying. You fuss, we live. And he stood, slowly, for he was old now, and ambled away.

Há uma fé em amar ferozmente aquele que é seu por direito especialmente se você esperou anos e especialmente se parte de você nunca acreditou que pudesse merecer essa mão amada e acolhedora estendida assim a você. Estou pensando em fé agora e nos testamentos de solidão e no que sentimos do que somos merecedores neste mundo. Anos atrás, nas Hébridas eu lembro dum velho que caminhava todas as manhãs sobre as pedras cinzentas até a margem das focas berrantes que segurava seu chapéu contra o peito na maresia arrebatadora e fazia sua prece ao Jesus turbulento escondido dentro d'água, e eu penso na história da tempestade e todo mundo acordando e vendo a distante mas familiar figura do outro lado da água chamando eles, e como todos nós estamos nos preparando para esse despertar abrupto, e esse chamado, e esse momento em que temos que dizer sim, exceto que não virá tão grandiosamente, tão Biblicamente, mas mais sutil e intimamente no rosto daquele que você sabe que tem que amar, para que quando nós finalmente saímos do barco em direção a eles, descobrimos que tudo nos ampara e tudo confirma a nossa coragem, e se você quisesse se afogar você poderia, mas você não quer porque finalmente depois de toda a luta e todos esses anos, você não quer mais, você simplesmente cansou de se afogar e você quer viver e você quer amar e você irá caminhar sobre qualquer território e qualquer escuridão, o quão fluida e quão perigosa, para tomar a única mão que você sabe que pertence à sua.

Anything you polish with attention will become a mirror.

I don’t know where prayers go, or what they do. Do cats pray, while they sleep half-asleep in the sun? Does the opossum pray as it crosses the street? The sunflowers? The old black oak growing older every year? I know I can walk through the world, along the shore or under the trees, with my mind filled with things of little importance, in full self-attendance. A condition I can’t really call being alive. Is a prayer a gift, or a petition, or does it matter? The sunflowers blaze, maybe that’s their way. Maybe the cats are sound asleep. Maybe not. While I was thinking this I happened to be standing just outside my door, with my notebook open, which is the way I begin every morning. Then a wren in the privet began to sing. He was positively drenched in enthusiasm, I don’t know why. And yet, why not. I wouldn’t persuade you from whatever you believe or whatever you don’t. That’s your business. But I thought, of the wren’s singing, what could this be if it isn’t a prayer? So I just listened, my pen in the air.

If porcelain, then only the kin you won't miss under the shoe of a mover or the tread of a tank; if a chair, then not too comfortable, lest there be regret in getting up and leaving; if clothing, then just so much as can fit in a suitcase, if books, then those which can be carried in the memory, if plans, then those which can be overlooked when the time comes for the next move to another street, continent, historical period or world: who told you that you were permitted to settle in? who told you that this or that would last forever? did no one ever tell you that you will never in the world feel at home in the world?

We love what we have, no matter how little, because if we don't, everything will be gone. If we don't, we will no longer exist, since there will be nothing here for us. What's here is something that we are still building. It's something we cannot yet see, because we are part of it. Someday soon, this building will stand on its own, while we, we will be the trees that protect it from the fierce wind, the trees that will give shade to children sleeping inside or playing on swings.

The days come and go like waves on pebbles. She the sea will not wear the coat made from flame, made from the flag of combustion. She will not dress herself in fire. Nor can she wear the galloping world she dreams of. The days do not touch her, she has the shell of a snail. She cannot see clearly the way her wounds are shaped. She will not dress herself, she will not dream. She cannot see her way clearly over the cold cinders. To sleep she ventures out under a rowboat to a ship at sea. The nights come and go in the waves beneath the ship, she will not wear the canvas sails, she will not dress herself in salt. The nights do not touch the sea. The sea touches night in her rest.