Trying to make it real compared to... what?

We just returned from a sweet mini-retreat - 36 hours of listening to jazz, wandering through bookstores, long conversations over breakfast or tea and a chance to reconnect - in Brattleboro, VT. I am always rested and refreshed when we can get away like this - it has become part of the rhythm of health and healing in my life - and I am grateful that we have the time and resources to make it happen.

Driving back this afternoon in the cold afternoon sunlight, this old, old tune came quietly back for a visit: "This is what these little trips feel like" the song whispered to me. The gently descending guitar - the tea and oranges and songs - and ideas that are spiritual and sensual and fun and saturated in soul all at the same time.

One of the joys of such mini-retreats is taking a WHOLE DAY to wander around used book stores. I found three volumes by one of my favorite poets, Louise Gluck, as well as my favorite Jack Kerouac book, too. Later we found bootleg CDs of Springsteen and Afghani folk musicians to say nothing of a KILLER 70s compilation. Here is one of those sweet poems called "Celestial Music."

I have a friend who still believes in heaven.
Not a stupid person, yet with all she knows, she literally talks to God.
She thinks someone listens in heaven.
On earth she's unusually competent.
Brave too, able to face unpleasantness.

We found a caterpillar dying in the dirt, greedy ants crawling over it.
I'm always moved by disaster, always eager to oppose vitality
But timid also, quick to shut my eyes.
Whereas my friend was able to watch, to let events play out
According to nature. For my sake she intervened
Brushing a few ants off the torn thing, and set it down
Across the road.

My friend says I shut my eyes to God, that nothing else explains
My aversion to reality. She says I'm like the child who
Buries her head in the pillow
So as not to see, the child who tells herself
That light causes sadness-
My friend is like the mother. Patient, urging me
To wake up an adult like herself, a courageous person.

In my dreams, my friend reproaches me. We're walking
On the same road, except it's winter now;
She's telling me that when you love the world you hear celestial music:
Look up, she says. When I look up, nothing.
Only clouds, snow, a white business in the trees
Like brides leaping to a great height
Then I'm afraid for her; I see her
Caught in a net deliberately cast over the earth.

In reality, we sit by the side of the road, watching the sun set;
From time to time, the silence pierced by a birdcall.
It's this moment we're trying to explain, the fact
That we're at ease with death, with solitude.
My friend draws a circle in the dirt; inside, the caterpillar doesn't move.
She's always trying to make something whole, something beautiful, an image
Capable of life apart from her.
We're very quiet. It's peaceful sitting here, not speaking, The composition
Fixed, the road turning suddenly dark, the air
Going cool, here and there the rocks shining and glittering
It's this stillness we both love.
The love of form is a love of endings.

Dianne takes beautiful pictures and this trip was no exception - she took a bunch - some of which are included above. And then, as we were just about to head home, I found this GREAT old jazz album that I have wanted for more than 40 years... with this incredible song - that is another part of the journey: I'm just trying to make it real compared to what!??!