Dust to Dust

I am not arrogant enough to assume I will outlive my mother, or even her need for my physical and psychological assistance, but I hope I do, because I am more enchanted by artistic possibility than ever, and would dearly love to begin a new period of work and activity. Granted, nothing special might come of it, but it would be glorious all the same to surrender myself to long hours of arduous bliss.

I also realize that some new difficulty might arise to prevent it � temporarily, or even forever. And of course all of this � the hope, the possibility, the not knowing � is what makes the present moment the strange and poignant thing it is. Beyond it, nothing is needed: the moment is sufficient unto itself. It brings with it its own instruction and wisdom, its own power to heal.

Within the moment, one can spend an entire life as a voyager or pilgrim. It happens in any case. Recognizing it makes all the difference: what you taste, touch, and hold now is life itself.

No wonder every smile reminds us of home, every fallen leaf, every cloud, handshake, and tear. Dust to dust, we are already here.

August 17, 2006

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