"I dream of a hard and brutal mysticism in which the naked self merges with the nonhuman world and somehow survives...Paradox and bedrock."-Edward Abbey

10 February 2010

Study of a Mountain Afternoon [Deep Winter]

A steady wind dances through the Buddhist prayer flags that line the House of Owls and Bats, the front fence, and the out-buildings. I can occasionally hear our chimes clink out a soft tune. Not a horrific gale, but enough to justify a coat when going out. The outside air is crisp and not a cloud mares the turquoise blue sky. Patches of ground are beginning to appear from under the snow around the house.

Sipping the last of my coffee, I realize my only concrete schemes for the day include a walk to check the post and making lentils for dinner. There is something comforting in that. No further schemes. No obligations. Just being. Sometimes, that's enough.

Visitation is in a few days. I wonder if my little girl will further taunt me about her boyfriend, and then realize it's almost a given. The ice races are happening down on the Long Loch. Those are going on until the end of the month. My daughter finds them entertaining, and, when returning her to that suburban/wildlife interface enclave her mother and stepfather moved her to, she asks me to drive us along the Long Loch to watch the races as we pass by.

Either that, or a walkabout this visit. I've been wanting to go to the monument, having not seen Clifford since early, early autumn, when Sabina and I took Elvis and Priscilla up that way. The last time we were up the 730, was a little later in the autumn after that, when Sabina bashed her knee at one of the sets of ruins.

My brother somewhat spoke of coming up this way. Somewhat. He talks a good game, but he is a little bit of a flake. He tells me of disliking the cold and how the high sheer peaks of our little Sahel get him to feel claustrophobic and that he likes his suburb townhouse out in Saudi, which just baffles me because it's mutherfucking Saudi. Besides, there might be some sporting contest for him to watch on his flatscreen. I know better than to take it personally and work on not really thinking about it, so if he does contact me about coming up, it'll be a pleasant surprise.

Here and now, I finish my coffee. Having let Milarepa out, I know how the breeze will bite right through to the bone if one is not sufficiently bundled up. The weekly news for our little Sahel might be in the post. Going to check is just a catalyst for going for a walk. Once, very long ago, a gypsy told me walking is good for the soul. I'm not sure I have a soul to begin with, but I have found a certain meditative peace in putting one foot in front of the other.

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