Virginia Bluebells
Perhaps writing nothing at all is best today.
A chill invests the air, after a few days of nearly summer-like warmth. This is April’s reversal, the point of the line in Eliot’s poem The Wasteland. “April is the cruellest month, breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire, stirring / Dull roots with spring rain”. New life’s splendor of color and promise of something new; – are we, can we turn the page? And then the whiplash chill. There’s no page at all to be turned.
The end of the Zhuangzi has been reached. I enjoyed the reading, the felt kinship with the tao, that undefinable “thusness” that defines all. If you’ve been reading this, I suppose you are happy to 
reach the end too…
Our grand daughter was awake early this morning. She greeted me at 6:30AM. She mentioned that today she would visit the baby goats. I remember feeling excitement, seeing and touching farm animals when I was a child. Small animals and children are naturally compatible. Many generations ago I know that we lived with our animals nearby. My grandparents could hardly have done without the cow, chickens, and of course the pigs. They were cared for, and in turn they cared for my grandparents and my mother. Again, the tao understood, and lives well lived.
Our grand daughter will play soccer later in the morning. She will run around, a kid with other crazy kids kicking a ball up and down a grassy field. What more could one ask of life? She is six years old!
