The hardest thing for me has been to commit.
Because to commit is so tied to a kind of suicide.
To commit to what?
To this life.
To meet it not forever at an angle.
To not presume a “missing-ness”, a distance, a metaphor for every perception.
Not hide in the safe half-light of questions, nor see life as synonymous with a single question.
Yes, to commit to this, to move away from my position of unnecessary vigilance.
What if life has no question for me, has never had? For is there such a thing as a real question…so real as to signify a real fault, a real lack, a real root of real guilt?
Walking down the pier to the end this afternoon, sitting on the sea-smoothed bench, facing the sun, letting it bleach me, my son playing by my feet…
Perception after perception after perception.
There in front, again, again, again. Just there, mute. No possibility, no crack for a question.
“Hey Daddy” he called, pointing up into the 4 o’clock blue, “there’s the moon, look!”, and so it was, rising, like it always did, friendly, no secrets.
“Yes, sweetie…yes, there is the moon, you’re right.”
No question. I meet. I meet.
And so the first position, the position before, is a position of abundance…always firstly outer, untethered, into the public, into the human, into the world, the world of things that are just there, unasking.
Constant Voice 