The Language
The desire for truth is confronted with poems, with tales written by you long ago. And then you are ashamed, because it was all sheer myth. Neither did any of it happen, nor did you feel the feelings contained therein. The language itself unfurled its velvet yarn in order to cover what, without it, would equal nothing. -Czeslaw Milosz

There seems to be a bit of drama hanging about. I was walking alone in the woods recently. The sounds were amazing. I was so cold that the most prominent sound was my shaking body. After tuning that out, other sounds became more apparent. I think it was the dead mouse that triggered it. Seeing the dead mouse tangled in dry leaves and not partially eaten in any way made me wonder about its arrival just to the left of my path. It made me think that walking with someone beside me or in front of me or behind me would qualify my steps, my direction, my meaning and mood. Really, the path I was walking was quite familiar, but not the same - never the same. My most meaningful, meditative and astonishing walks were the solitary ones. The time of day, the position of the sun, the weather all play a part, to be sure, but the talk is what destroys it all. Quiet perspective is not likely with a companion other than the voice of God in your Spirit. Other voices are loud. His is quiet. After the thinking subsides from images and memories that have been talked out, reflection and surprise set in - this is triggered by the most mundane rock, weed, bird, tree or mouse hidden in dry leaves. The delicacy of both sound and silence are lost to walkers. The walker alone becomes these.

I was confronted with self today. It came in a post card from Emily Stetzer who is loving people in El Salvador right now. I hope I am not out of place to share her questions with you, as well as what they did to me. The post card said - it read:

dear mister graf,