FootprintsintheWind.com

One thing is sure: you will find other ways.

:- Doug.

Each is inside the other and neither knows which.

:- Doug.

Dark is when we fear losing ourselves in this conversation. But to lose oneself is to find our friend, and to lose ourselves, even our together, is to find something inestimable.

:- Doug.

Not knowing is a track of one.

:- Doug.

We are surprised when a dog hears us before we speak, when a person hears us before we speak, but each happens—probably to you, too. So why our surprise? Both the surprise at being heard, and your own speaking another’s mind are commonplaces. They are ways two pronounce us one.

:- Doug.

Maybe the other light is utter absence—sitting far away.

:- Doug.

What are the possible ways to be one?—Am I you or me?—Remind me now. Why is it so dark—on this other side of light? What is the question a dying woman asks about this other side of light—this other light?

:- Doug.

“God,” the pray-er began
“We just. . .”
As he went on I counted,
Collecting his “justs:”
Surely a just prayer
But let not your teeth
Get stuck
In justice
Or pretending to little requests
There is a hidden more
Back behind all those “justs:”
He did not trust his god,
Had to put in his order
From some imagined menu
With only some delights
For his unlearned palate
Imagining a limited god.

:- Doug.

Try not to limit God.

:- Doug.

I am favored.

:- Doug.

The point is not the length
of conversation
nor the mere dropping
of veils
More
other
taking in
each of other
—finding us—
of same substance
and holy

:- Doug.

Darkness
in the flavor
of the stew
portends blending
of ingredients
us
flavors aromas textures rising

:- Doug.

Let’s not let
his hate
toward us
push us
into hate of
anyone
rather to curiosity

:- Doug.

When one coming near
is close (a grandchild, say)
why do I fear
to exercise my fullest
curiosity?

:- Doug.

Wind comes when higher and lower pressure come near. It takes the gradient, flows down, equalizes, finds level, seeks out differences, and so animates. Spirit moves, now more slowly, with deliberation, concealing shapes, its edges shaped by them, large and so small as to be un-seeable. Wind leads on to wind.

:- Doug.

The future is dark;
It is ever rich

:- Doug.

I chose to name my stroke “Blessing.” It is good for me. I take it as part of my life—integral to me, same as the day after a child is born, the new parents cannot imagine, cannot remember, a time they were not a three. Indeed, in some real way perhaps, they were always on that trajectory. So I have always been headed for my stroke, and my life after. And you and your friend have always been leaning into one another.

:- Doug.

We accept our conversations, and will go on wandering, wondering, until they end.

:- Doug.

This last hot chocolate is not the end of the exploration, not the end of our hot chocolate, but the beginning—see how the trail curves off into the great forest?

:- Doug.

Yet this is dark for us—until we bring it more to our awareness.

:- Doug.

Perhaps the dark—but that would be too easy.

:- Doug.

Have I glimpsed the secret of hot chocolate, these conversations? I concede: No.

:- Doug.

What is it brings us forth to our home? Brings us with another? Delights, elates, buoys, lifts, gratulates, thrills, pierces, enlivens?

:- Doug.