the trees are listening

Yesterday I awoke to the weeping of the trees. Today they are still, as if listening, as if the air itself holds portent of change.

I had lunch with Dr R. He woke a brown tweed ivy cap, a dusty pink button down, a brown wool sweater. I was sorry I didn't have my camera with me, he would have made quite a photo against the beige diner seats. We talked about art, and the way we fashion our lives as works of art. I become animated talking with him. Dr R. said, "how often we are forgetful of God."

God: That Against Which I Struggle. I do not forget God as much as I forget to be thankful for the struggle, for my lessons in grappling with the numinous.

Lesson One: it's more about process than product. (Um. I still haven't learned this.)

Lesson Two: I need directions, but I cannot expect them to come wrapped in red paper with a little label: "directions." In lieu of red-paper-packages, I have to make up directions for myself. This works best before bed at night. For example: "Tomorrow: coffee, put away clothes, library, work, jog, half and half." (Honestly. I need to be this specific with myself. It is absurd to get to work and then have to go out for coffee. Or to make the coffee without half and half.)

The trees are still alert, waiting.