We were never not having the conversation at nurses station at hospice house.
Nor were we never not having the cogent conversation at hospital in s.c.u. room with man whose brain tumors scholarize science for him, who sees patterns of sound in vibrative light.
It is an eternal conversation. It is about living and dying, the co-creating collapse of the possible into the actual moving into the improbable.
Hours go by.
As snow falls.
And the feast of Thomas Merton’s dying day walks formless the cloister corridor of fond recollection.
I drive home from hospice and hospital in silence.
Conversation is all we know of heaven and what we’ve forgiven of hell.
The radical proposal is to trust one another with what we call our lives.
Nor were we never not having the cogent conversation at hospital in s.c.u. room with man whose brain tumors scholarize science for him, who sees patterns of sound in vibrative light.
It is an eternal conversation. It is about living and dying, the co-creating collapse of the possible into the actual moving into the improbable.
Hours go by.
As snow falls.
And the feast of Thomas Merton’s dying day walks formless the cloister corridor of fond recollection.
I drive home from hospice and hospital in silence.
Conversation is all we know of heaven and what we’ve forgiven of hell.
The radical proposal is to trust one another with what we call our lives.