The Horse Which Is Still In The Barn

As usual I stumble through the days, bleary but sincere. The hours pass like water and the river never seems to get anywhere. At 4 a.m. the light is darker, wetter. I walk the dogs tired, my thoughts angling slowly towards work. Teaching, writing . . . what I am doing? Who is paying attention? And yet I keep going, as if matters. As if it does. I wrote that somewhere, a poem maybe? I find myself wishing the older dog could let go, just cross over. He sleeps fitfully by the bed, groaning and wheezing. He trembles when trying to stand and then stands staring at the wall as if looking for . . . what? Even writing it so simply makes me want to just bawl. The other day, I did. Tomorrow I meet J. by the lake to walk and talk. Said goodbye to M. the other day, the two of us walking in the rain and looking for Monarch Butterfly eggs. He seemed tall to me, perhaps because most of our meetings have been seated at tables, writing spread in front of us between coffee mugs. How lucky I have been in my friends, and yet they always seem to be leaving.

What a sad post this is! I told C. yesterday that I feel like a yo yo while sitting. I keep bouncing off the zafu with big ideas – a plot, a poem, a plan. I feel like a cart with big ideas, that doesn’t know how much depends on the horse which is still in the barn.

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