Can I be read in my writing?
Does it help readers bent over my words get the tell of my condition?
Is the ache of my heart and the storm of my head leaked out onto the page as they each gently hold the edge of it in their fingertips, trying to not muss the black ink upon the clean white page, evidenced?
I feel lucky enough to know where the spare toilet paper is stored. This feels like a privilege to me.
Not everyone gets to know these intimate daily knowings. It requires real knowing. Real Knowing.
Mention of the weather-perfunctory observations on what kind of day it is-are perhaps not idle.
Perhaps we have a deep and legitimate need to know in our entire being what the day is like and who we meet it in and where.
Merton says we ourselves are the climate. I get this. In the side room in the mountains, snow deep, boots filled.
In the sense of spring, February foolishness, southeastern roadways, here again this place that place this place
maybe just this dailiness just this everydayness just this tender normalcy
is my best effort at prayer.