Thoughts in a book: this time last year

To progress. To move from one thing to another. Linear time. The past: worse. The future: brighter. A dichotomy of motion.

Dystopia is the inverse, but the same, a romanticized past, a future of unbearable ugliness and privation.

In the rhythms of the greater world, there is another story.

&

Cold in the early morning. Wake to snow-covered fields. Half-moon, bright in the rich gray of the sky, above the ridges of white and black.

Woodsmoke. Even the fence rails, even the willow branches wear a ridge of snow.

Loaves to Fill the Maw of the Light Box

Social media is a silent scream. A box full of white teeth. When I close the laptop I am left with the impression of cacophony ringing in my head. Silent as stars, their clangor of light.

They are called sites, but they seem to exist precisely nowhere. When I look up, when I come back from that abstracted place, I realize I have not felt my body in some time. All these minutes or hours, tensed, still, in this chair.

I have been educating myself and connecting with others, in this time when that is so important. Tapping at the key board is crying for action, is calling desperately for some idea of what to do. Necessary in this chaotic moment. At the same time I recognize that, as I’ve been in this online social space, I haven’t been mindful. I have been consumed in it.