Sunday, December 8, 2013
(Continued from page 1)
It made me think more about Faulkner, since I could not spend a whit of energy in trying to capture or conquer time, or hope and desire. For the time being, my race was run. My whole world was waiting, everything suspended, except the routine obligation to herd the dog in and out the door for a snuffle of fresh air or to pick off the scents of neighbors and news -- a coyote one night, using the side yard as a crosswalk to the marsh, a muskrat making its way home, another, to the tidal creek.
The clocks stop but the world goes on, I thought one afternoon, transporting laundry from the washer to the dryer -- a simple act of keeping the daily schedule, completing the customary chores. The world goes on. With me or without, within or there beyond, in the world of weeds and wonders.
I suppose this is the territory through which one might travel to enter the mausoleum of hope and desire, these windows to frame the journey and glimpse the destination. But from here, sitting quietly and growing still, I know I am no more than a fleeting bird or a broken twig that may yield a bud again.
I don't need a clock to tell me: I am biding my time. The pendulum will swing again my way: I will add my tock to the rhythm of the moment, the course of seasons, the cycle of life.
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