April 5, 2006

In the car with Max, asleep. Parked in front of gardens, encompassed by fog that licks the windows and lights the tree branches, where robins and squirrels sing in naked privacy. How precious it is—waiting with baby, to awaken. His cries from dreams when I turned the mirror to my face. The crow’s diving flight from fog when I turned the mirror over my hands. What will we learn together this morning? What will we see together, with fresh eyes? In what ways can we practice love? It is grace, sitting here listening to Max’s breathing and happy in bird flight song.

An old man with stiff limbs, work gloves, boots, and small black glasses walked into the garden, into the fog. Then he came into the parking lot, seemed to ascend the hill, then walked toward my car as I sat reading Robert Bly. We looked into each other’s faces then away—twice—and I thought he wished to ask me a question about fog, or birds, or gardens from my memory, or happiness, or beginning a new life—but he walked behind my car and I thought “It’s rude to stare at ghosts,” and I thought, “That man was Robert Bly himself, or God.”

Now I can see the wind, it is not invisible. This new kind of vision that causes me not to see certain things. Like the van that was charcoal colored as the wet streets, I drove right into its path and didn’t see it until it honked its horn violently towards me. Jesus, there’s a baby sleeping in here.

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