Another funeral last night,
actually a memorial service in Milwaukee at UWM for a man who had been a colleague of my wife's father since 1956, a Jewish Zen biologist. He was far removed in sophistication and knowledge from the simple man we buried a week ago, yet they were much alike as well: the love of living things expressed in different ways, the ability to reach out and touch others, to change them. Both men are now part of the energy of the universe, the spin of the earth, the playfulness of a summer breeze bending a bright flower. Any of us would be fortunate to be loved as much as either of those men.
It's a lovely winter morning. A cold nip to the wind, partly cloudy, the sun hidden, a greyness. No frost on the windshield of the pick-up. I can see my breath in the air. A stillness, as if winter holds its breath, then the branch of a bush moves and the spell is broken. Clouds are smears to the north and east and west, haze above. If we could cup the day in our hand like water, what would it look like?
A hawk races through the village following above the river, side-slipping trees along the bank. It is not a red-tail hawk. The flag at the cemetery flaps west to east. In the country, the bank of clouds to the west looks like mountains, snow-covered. I drive through the Valley of the Mountains of Cloud.
A truck comes south on Highway E. It casts a diesel spell.
Snow has continued to drift in the ditches, leaving sensuous shapes. The roadway is entirely clear.
I am north of Five Corners when the sun breaks through: it's like I'm punched in the eye with a golden fist.
At the south edge of Ripon a couple of crows are heading west. Are they looking to the mountains. Do they know how the mountains bait the sky?
We always want too much. I want to travel the same piece of ground everyday yet always be able to see what's different. No two days are the same, unless we settle for life as a dull, grey haze. I don't mind the greyness. Dullness is of one's own choosing.
Comments