What Do Wrens Eat?

The blog works when the blog is fresh.

So what is real?

That there is peanut butter and warm oatmeal sitting solidly in my belly.
That I'm afraid of not having enough money to buy food.
That I'm curious what it would be like to feel that way.

That things happen in their time,
which includes getting motivated to do things:
there's some internal obstacle to overcome or processing that must happen.
And then it does.

That I'm feeling a maturity that comes with being seared and seasoned by heartache.

That there will be no Christmas presents this year, because my luggage vanished on the way home from Lithuania. An $800 claim to America West Airlines won't bring back my rakusu. (In the Belfast sesshin Kennedy Roshi asked me, "Do you really need that?" Now we'll find out.)

That there are lots of things I'd like to do, none of which pay.
But writing about my life is worthwhile anyway, because it heals and magnifies my soul, and somehow sets me free.

When it's this cold, my skin gets all shriveled and dry,
like it's trying to curl up and hide.
Heavy food feels good: soup and tea and bready things.

Rob is gone, and his room is so cold. Probably freezing, at least. I'll go stick a body part in the refrigerator and see how it compares.

At Tassajara the mice used to come into the walk-in fridge in the wintertime, because it was actually "warm" in there: 4°C inside vs. 2°C outside. No mice here, but a tiny wren at the window, inspecting the leafless fig tree, with a red spot like paint on the crown of her head.

That's all.