How many more times could I dream myself into an ascetic yogini alone in the wilds?

— Gayle Garrison

 

2/6/75

Yes it really is a battle We struggle so to trade between us energies of love I had wanted to reach out and caress your heart but with hands of stone I couldn’t do it feeling weighted down And everywhere over the globe what war and pain cries skyward fly It is not we are not willing rather so weak and dumb Had we joined forces today had we joined palm to palm strength of equality justice and mercy had we transcended our own gross qualms I spent 15 minutes today choosing what pants to put on Who was waiting for me?

No one was attending my folly That’s just it We flounder so alone until we get so tired of us we lose our self and then what do you put on? Nakedness, which suffices in winter storm, because resistance is the unthought of . . .

. . . Things, shadows keep us apart for the time is not yet ripe for our deep acquaintance. I will tell us, friend, that we are bound together for a certain task; a certain transmutation is ahead of us. It has to do. with words and communication. The subtle structure is now being laid. We will work within it later. We will dance upon its beams within two years. The dance will be a challenge, yes, most difficult to execute. How hungry we seem reaching over this gap of time to a realizable ideal. Yet, I feel, say it, a bond, a link, a thing to be done, a square to become a circle, a spoke to become a hub, the hub to become an atom in a larger body’s evolution . . .

Companionship

Shall I be of the world, or not of it? Shall I be of it and not of it at the same time?

How each object in my surroundings has taken on a naked animation! The pipes gurgle and thump at me. The cat spits at me. The night sounds come down like a heavy blanket on me. I am alone in this hour to reckon, and to be reckoned with. So perhaps, then, I am not alone. Even so, it looks that way.

How many more times could I dream myself into an ascetic yogini alone in the wilds? How many more lifetimes am I going to waste away believing in my confidence? Is this panic? It feels like it a bit. I run like a squirrel at the most harmless sounds. What would I do with the whole earth under my feet, to hear me and to talk back?

It does, you know, talk back. One must learn to search for the signs, to be aware of the message of a leaf which falls from a tree just so, and to know just why one makes the acquaintance of goats and snakes in the same day.

I really hold hands tightly with my friends, the books. After we have told each other all we know, then we shall have to part. That is long from ripening. For just today I found that the dialogue with a book supercedes the lecture being given by it. Some compilers of books even work upon that premise. And this I have learned after years and years of books, and of intimations of dialogue starving for realization.

Yes, I can secure myself, I have a good many years left with books.