(no subject)
I just want to take this opportunity to say something good about the end of August, the best time of the year, when everything suddenly grows so sweet and delicious and precious. End of August, why didn't you come sooner?
I hardly know how to put into words how good and frightening it feels to be alive, to be settling down at last into a real living-place (I am moving to West Virginia!), to notice thrilling clues in all directions. Several days ago I got to walk along a dirt path with old friends, feeling that singular feeling of moisture lifting off skin in late-day sun after a long bath in a river, thinking that I had caught the corner of a vaporous joy that's been slipping out of my hands for too long. And then chance hits me like a train and here again is this new friend who feels like an old friend I've been missing my whole life. For one day time could disappear and we could do nothing but dive naked into water, peer into the curious warm crevices of stones, interpret each other's secret signs and languages, lay back and laugh and tell stories until dawn without hardly noticing and then spend all day engulfed in the deep sleep of children.
Suddenly my empty hands are full of words and rich fables and the warm dark stones of love. A prayer for August, for ways that open in every direction I turn: thank you, thank you, thank you.
I hardly know how to put into words how good and frightening it feels to be alive, to be settling down at last into a real living-place (I am moving to West Virginia!), to notice thrilling clues in all directions. Several days ago I got to walk along a dirt path with old friends, feeling that singular feeling of moisture lifting off skin in late-day sun after a long bath in a river, thinking that I had caught the corner of a vaporous joy that's been slipping out of my hands for too long. And then chance hits me like a train and here again is this new friend who feels like an old friend I've been missing my whole life. For one day time could disappear and we could do nothing but dive naked into water, peer into the curious warm crevices of stones, interpret each other's secret signs and languages, lay back and laugh and tell stories until dawn without hardly noticing and then spend all day engulfed in the deep sleep of children.
Suddenly my empty hands are full of words and rich fables and the warm dark stones of love. A prayer for August, for ways that open in every direction I turn: thank you, thank you, thank you.