Leonard Cohen has a way of summing things up for me. Not much more to be said about a life well lived, albeit, very heavy at times; and often, more mindless than mindful.
First there was the meditation involved with creating the template–totally mindless. I was absorbed in the quality of the feel, as the pen and ink dug into the paper and at times seems to effortlessly glide over the page so that a single stroke felt like it went clear across the pad and down the center to the very bottom of the page.
Then there were those comments when what to write went blank. It went blank for months. Gibberish. Then one day the journal was open to this unfinished page and Cohen’s meditation looked like it would barely fit on the page but it did. I thought it might sit well as an edited image. It comes together as text-and-image and combines a number of moods while fulfilling its mission to be published.
Serenity is the outcome, but it seems too far away when I am carrying a grand-piano down a mountain of theory. I am sitting with a young girl, fair and beautiful as she crawls to the couch. I almost do not want to let her go there; but I do, and she emerges walking, maybe a half-inch taller than when she arrived; but how much growth can we really expect in an hour. I hope she waters a few of the seeds awakened while we sat by the sea, chatting and untangling backlashes from yesterday’s fishing lines. The wind seems to blow westerly in every season, and to every season we attach a new moment adding them up with an abacus left dusty besides the slide-rule, made of wood and brass. But here, I am the instrument of research.
Her life opened like a book on our laps. I don’t count the way I use to. I don’t count on things and other objects–no, I think on myself now. And, I thank myself graciously for the compassionate care that I often find capable of giving to myself.
I settle into that place of relative silence and slowly she enters, tentative at first, willing, ambivalent and scared. But, she is strong and she does not want to let on that she is so vulnerable that she does not think she can take one more step. Exhaustion and fear and insomnia and disease and helplessness and hopelessness will devour her if she takes even one more step toward life. The piano is too heavy to carry.