Fetch

30 mins sit, brief walking meditation, then 20 more mins sitting. Felt like it had some traction. I drove to Tom’s at sunrise by way of 82nd Ave: the sky was all orange fire, huge and stippled like textured plaster, and when I turned west on Division street I swear to God there was a faint rainbow in front of me. I don’t know what more of a sign I could ask for, unless I’m holding out for angels with blazing swords and loquatious shrubbery. I’m really not at all sure what the enterprise of meditation is, for a lapsed Buddhist and not-really-Christian and pilferer of hozho; but it appears to be the correct one.

Not that I imagine the show was put on for my benefit. I don’t require a monogrammed universe. I think a lot these days about how to save the enchantment while rejecting the falsehood. Maybe it is to be done by methodically inverting the Aristotelian hierarchy, and making things subordinate to -- less real than -- actions and relationships. The sunrise was not an object created by God for my edification: that's an absurdly grandiose idea. The sunrise was a movement in which She and I participated; and the sunrise as object -- as a thing that could have been photographed by third party --  is simply an artifact, a by-product the multitude of relationships in motion between the person of the Sun and various persons here on earth. Who are ourselves by-products of multitudes of interactions among and within themselves. It becomes ponderous and absurd to try to make my language reflect that sense of what is most real, for any amount of time, but it's quite easy to see it that way. I see it that way all the time, and always have. The wind of the world blows through me, and every bit of me shimmers like leaves in the sunlight. That's not some advanced meditative state: it's the state of my ordinary daily walk under the sky. It is often breathtakingly beautiful, it's true, but it's also normal, ordinary, regular. I don't have to fetch it from far away. I just have to step out of my door, and it fetches me.