In the early years of human presence on Earth, I was a kid. I loved going to the matinée at the movie theatre on Avenue Road in Toronto. It was a bit of a walk but I was young and strong.
Inside, a large waddling woman patrolled the aisles. Fifty-five years later, I still remember her bellows:
In recent days, I’ve been re-exploring Stephen King’s novella The Library Policeman. I love how King creates such believable characters. Poor Sam Peebles, a respected Junction City insurance agent, is about to be devoured by Ardelia Lortz, the town’s bewitching librarian. He opens the front door, steps into the foyer, and is greeted by a large sign pressing down on its tripod stand:
In my sixties, I’ve come into the world of Buddhist meditation. In two weeks, I’m heading to the heart of Massachusetts for a one-month silent retreat. I’ve been many times before. Love and peace often surround me there. Over all, we are embraced by a single word:
How is it that a human expression can hold such different meanings? Every muscle in my body tightening. And then an undoing, a sweet mushing of my structures, a blessed puddling.
Such a mystery, this life. The agony, the ecstasy and the calm in which high and low seem irrelevant. I’m for all of it.