What is the Christ? Those who say it is the creative and creating energy which brings into being that which is -- these interest me.

Something brings into being that which is. "Christ" is as reasonable a nomenclature as any other symbolizing sound formed into a word.

From the treatise On the Mysteries by Saint Ambrose, bishop
(The sacrament that you receive is effected by the words of Christ)
We see that grace can accomplish more than nature, yet so far we have been considering instances of what grace can do through a prophet’s blessing. If the blessing of a human being had power even to change nature, what do we say of God’s action in the consecration itself, in which the very words of the Lord and Saviour are effective? If the words of Elijah had power even to bring down fire from heaven, will not the words of Christ have power to change the natures of the elements? You have read that in the creation of the whole world he spoke and they came to be; he commanded and they were created. If Christ could by speaking create out of nothing what did not yet exist, can we say that his words are unable to change existing things into something they previously were not? It is no lesser feat to create new natures for things than to change their existing natures (-- from Office of Readings, Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel).

I like reasonable words.

They're much in demand for lack of them today.

May this feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel be a phrase contributing to a sentence of peace and prayer for peace in this desperate time.

Less depletion of creative energy would be nice.

Maggie spoke the simplest poetry at Quarry Hill, saying: "I'm only here to listen."

A temple, hidden, treasured
In the mountain's cleft.
Pines, bamboo such a subtle flavor:
An ancient Buddha sits there, wordless
The welling source speaks for him.
- Yuan Mei (1716–1798)

At prison, Charlie came to see what the character in Genesis saw of creation: "It's all good!"

We don't judge someone to be good, rather, they are good, and by seeing so we are sane.

Tommy and I talk baseball.

It was Podres pitching to Berra in 1955 who sliced it to left where Amoros made the grab.

Two years later Brooklyn was abandoned.

Birdsong in Bangor. Outside, on shaded asphalt near portable water dish, Rokpa hunkers in leaf-light.

We' taken first of 4 walks during 4 worker's comp audits driving Miss Saskia.

As flowing waters disappear into the mist
Every heart is its own Buddha;
To become a saint, do nothing.
Enlightenment: the world is a mote of dust,
You can look right through heaven's round mirror
Slip past all form, all shape
And sit side by side with nothing save Tao.
- Shih Shu (c. 1703)

I imagine someone asking: Have you been saved in the nothing of Tao?

I wonder if it would be useful to suggest I carry some particular adult onset peculiar syndrome rather than the equally odd narrative suggesting I carry a propensity toward being a hermit, an anchorite, or a lay monastic cosmotheandric solitary.

The leaves have nothing to say. Nor do clouds and breeze passing do anything but invite gaze. Grass and weeds, wildflowers and white birch move in synchronized laze.

"Friendship is trust your friend will reveal you." (17Feb2011). That's what I wrote then. Today I add: "At the same time a friend is someone respecting the undisclosed. The undisclosed is not something dark or sinister. It is the deep and hidden wholeness. I prefer to look at the undisclosed as that which is hidden from sight, in the same way the eye is hidden from sight but serves as that through which we see.

In Orono we walk past Shaw & Tenney by river construction of hydro project. Old yellow building and barns where fine oars and paddles are made. The car has been moved when I return from walk. Later I learn Saskia moved it to allow tractor trailer a wide turn.

In Lincoln Rokie swims in river. After a bit, I sit in Catholic Church for a spell. The smell of wood pulp plant and closed windows makes stuffy the small interior. One woman sits on opposite side, side window open. I open window next to where I sit. I like that some churches keep doors unlocked.

At lake in Lincoln we park in shade. A few months ago we walked on ice for an hour where now kids swim and play in water. I love the seasons in Maine!

In Milo we read. Two more hours on the road.

At root it is nature -- (what some refer to as 'creation') -- that intrigues. The other narrative, the religious stories that condense history and cosmos into discursive theologies and cosmogonies, that, too, is interesting.

We have to learn about metaphor.

Wind picks up.

The gods breathe hard. Lows and highs converge.

It is a lovely summer day on the road!

At tonight's sitting thoughts arise.

Three sets of words:

• Everything is as it is.
• God is what is God.
• I am as I am.

Later Gerard asks if I can simplify.
I say:

• As it is
• Is what is
• As I am.

One hundred eighty miles today. Milbridge and back.

Hot day followed by three sets of three words.

Three soundings of bell end our sitting,

Thanks, Benedict!
Hermit monastic contemplative.
The monk in me bows in silent appreciation.

"I thought it belonged to a puzzle. But, it's just a piece -- there's nothing else to put it into." That's what Tom said at evening practice.

Thomas Merton suggests silence.

No words, nothing, between you and things.

As dawn is.

A new intimacy of presence.

In creative silence the world presenting itself beyond analysis, revealing what is wholely seen and holy heard.

No barriers.

No separation,

Merely with.