Tuesday, June 28, 2005

I'm not a sage, but I play one on the Internet
Not blogging right now because I'm busy at work getting things ready for me to go on vacation, and busy at home getting ready to go on vacation, and because in my head, I'm sitting in a hundred year old cottage on the shores of Lake Michigan, listening to the surf through open windows and shooting the shit with friends who've been friends so long they might as well be family, and ignoring the book on my lap.

Not blogging right now because we still haven't quite closed the deal on the old house, but it's down to a matter of days, and it's as done as it could be without the papers being signed, but still, I worry. Why worry? No reason at all. It's a good little house, and I'm glad to be passing it on so it can help somebody else build wealth and get on with moving up a little higher into the middle class, but everybody's crazy about something, and my biggest crazy bit is crazy about money and freaks out whenever there's a lot of it changing hands.

If I wanted to be totally accurate in the way I talk about it, I'd say that worries run through my mind. I mean, it's not like I can stop them. Have you ever tried to stop your thoughts? To borrow the imagery of Shunryu Suzuki, it's like using your hands to quell ripples on a pond. Result? More ripples. So, worry happens, and worry is unpleasant, so I spend too much time distracting myself with work and Harry Potter (just a couple of weeks) and problem solving and what have you so I don't have to listen to the mouse chatter of mouse thoughts nibbling in the corner of my mind.

And then, in the dark, I listen to the house breathing, and watch the shadowplay of moon and trees, and feel the warmth of the woman who shares my bed, and I know that nothing we think is real (from the Latin "res" for "thing") will last, that our world is as constant as a sand dune that ebbs and flows through wind and water, which is to say not constant at all, and it is the things we can't see, like love, that shape us and bear us up, and somewhere in all of that I find my own retreat, where the untouchable intangibles are the walls of my cottage, and the little recurring worries of life are nothing, really, less than a whisper, easily drowned out by the constant western wind, and the surf it sends before.

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