From the archives. Technically it is still autumn. But this part of the poem by Bly makes me remember everything we need is within. We are always already arriving.
Another autumn has arrived, and I have scarcely noticed. I did not note its arrival for my Friday classes and I am remiss. Like Olga Rasmussen, to whom I have turned this morning for inspiration, I have been so caught up with teaching and connecting with friends. Yet the season insists, and will not be denied. A spray–painted sheaf of plywood on the road near my home declares “OUR OWN APPELS. .50¢ lb.” Squash fills the crates at the farm stand. On the drive to the latest installment of a workshop series yesterday, I noticed the tops of trees beginning to blush.
The Buddhist ordered his boy to bring him, New Year’s
morning, a message. He
tore open the message
he himself had written, and signed, “Buddha.”
“Busyness has caught you, you have slowed and stopped.
If you start toward me, I
will surely come
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