010 Knots, Eggo Waffles, Monastic Bliss

I could stay here forever.

To Hammad,

I was born into knots, and nobody told me this—that we're all born into knots. Bound by guts and worship. I think it might have helped to know. Perhaps I could have relaxed a bit, into the faint vertigo within all that is human. Distinctly mortal, it is—that nauseous hunt for what the hell is going on. It's literally blood thirsty, we are out in the night for blood. All of us. Sick with desire to be somebody who knows. And most people just decide and get on with it, that this is what is going on. Some come to find that this is not what's going on at all. It's something else entirely.

I'm working on my mandala, Hammad. I'm working on it every day.

I wake up around 6:15am which sounds earlier than it is—these days hold a lot and still they'll only get longer. And wherever it goes I'll keep waking up with the sun, that much I know to be true. I get the idea that you wake up quite early... Anyhow I'm in no rush so I lay in my bed for a bit, happy, uncontrived. Sweet potential. From here there are two options, either 1. breakfast gets made for me or 2. I am inexplicably alone. I never seem to notice though—where they are. As I make my eggs. When I was small I used to smash frozen raspberries onto a fresh-out-the-toaster eggo waffle and then I'd put a lot of syrup on top and roll it all up. It feels relevant to say this, Hammad. That's what I used to do.

Usually I change out of my pajama bottoms into a short or a different pant, but there's no reason to switch tops—cotton camisole. Flip flops on, grab the green foam garden kneeling pad, and off to look for signs of life. Sometimes I find them upstairs, quiet, or outside fixing something, quiet, or mowing the lawn, also quiet. They play this perfect character for me and it's more apparent in the mornings. We love each other but we are waking up—we don't have to speak.

Something died, or some toadstool got moved, and I make big exclamations. I try to get them to notice me from far across the property, up the hill, sometimes on the other side of the house even but in that case I still imagine them noticing. Some incredible, awful thing has happened and everything will change now. I can see now, that everything will change. They stay over there. Sometimes I'm quiet too, very quiet with the passing of it all.

Then I'm gardening, mostly making it up as I go along. I get a lot of help too. I'm in charge but I'm also not—it's hard to explain. I'm loving the dirt on my knees and hands. I love finding worms. I love picking green beans and eating them too.

And then every day so long as the knots remain, the light burns the day to death. It's happened every time so far. And I try not to start over, not to forget—that thing I was thinking about. I try to be kind. I want more than ever to be kind, or wrathful—whichever is gentlest at any given time. Sometimes I'll see some pompous flower, pink and dripping of eden on whatever street in Manhattan. Too obvious. That's God's wrath Hammad. At once illusory and real, like the knots. Very real.

Happy May

From,

Ireland

---

To Nicole,

I always imagined monastic life to be a bit dull, a bit lustless—at least contrived. But all of the sudden on May 21 (that's today) I looked around and here's what I saw:

One beige rug, a bed on the floor, eyeglasses. A meditation cushion, hand-me-down from a friend—the only piece of furniture. A glass door with a grey sky, a tree bustling with wind. I saw my hands, a girl, somebody else, a very sweet girl, tender. I saw dinner in a bowl—in my lap, on the floor. Cabbage and rice. A small stack of books, a small bear. I saw my simple life, to yoga, to home, to the park, to bed, to sleep. Under my covers I saw the most perfect light, almost ancestral, a bit more yellowed than what you'd expect, white linen sheet, white comforter, no duvet. Everything perfectly still except me, and the tree. I saw a friend earlier, on the phone, I was so happy. I still am.

I've never felt more patient, dead center. I could wait, I really could, but if I do walk, I'll walk there.

So yeah, I'm not sure if you can hear it when I say it but everything is incredibly radiant, almost cutting. So sharp everything is. So much so, every single bit, that it all bleeds into something soft again. This repeats quite quickly, faster than what the eye can hold, we can't see it, but it happens to us anyway. Incredibly radiant it all is, to me. All so simple.

I always imagined monastic life to be a bit dull, but then I noticed today.

From,

Ireland