It was cold this morning. The ground was covered with coils of snow that blew and settled around my feet as I walked. I spent some time studying the chickens, whose beds of fall leaves are gray and frozen, and the waning moon, which was little more than a smear of light behind fast-moving clouds. When the air is clear you can hear the trains two towns over: the low rumble as they follow the river north and west towards Albany, the throaty moan of their whistles. You could think you were alone in those hours: you could think the world belonged to you. Near the brook, humming and gurgling below skeins of ice, I remembered to pray. I leaned against pine trees I have known for forty years and sang the old familiar hymn in my cracked and broken voice. I cried a little – first in sadness, then with the sort of embarrassed joy that is increasingly my companion these days. How near you were! Like the geese still angling south, like the bear turning over in his den. I came back the long way, smiling, happy against long odds, and grateful for nothing so much as the clear light of another morning.
I have sent out another newsletter: entangling resistance, Wendell Berry and ACIM in hopefully helpful ways. Who knows? If you are signed up for it, you should see it in your inbox. If you haven’t signed up but would like to get it, you can do so here or via the form in the sidebar. Any questions or concerns, please let me know.
Enjoy your Sunday . . . Thank you for being here.