cold mountain (51)

A black-maned roan and coral whip

Marks of distinction, rare possessions: my hands, still quick to these impulses, to reach toward the goldfish gaping in the bowl, to feel their small kisses on my still-living fingertips. My throat, which despite a recent cold, regains its elasticity and stretches and swells and hums to music, to sacred words, in response to a friend’s greeting. My skin, which wrinkles and pulls like dough pinched and kneaded, but is still strong enough to hold me all inside. I can’t forget my heart, which never seems to forget but amazingly does know how to let go, old sorrows, old disappointments, let them slip into time like darkened coins given over to the fountain, so that I can live in the dash and sparkle of the spray instead of weighted down by all that rust. I can’t overlook friends, loved ones, who are spiders as gossamer as their webs of trust and affection, shining along the strands that connect and hold my world. I could go on and on, make an ark of life and try to put, two by two, all the blessings I know. I would never finish, the ark would fill and fill but never to capacity with all the goodness and wonder and miracle of things in this simple and abundant existence.

Chinese and English pp. 70-71 here. I realize I’ve forgotten to include the link the last several entries.


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