Brahms

A friend of mine sent me this in response to my Brahms poem. I woke up this morning, it's a bit grey outside, my heart feels odd. Odd in that I feel restrained. Restrained because I want to have a set of infinite arms to reach out among fields, loved ones, crop planes, truck stops, cafes, towers, farms, etc and take everything in. But how limited, I thought, waking up this monring. I dreamed of an opening up, a warmer light than what we all stand under, empty handed. But one where, yes, heartache exits, suffering exists, because what else pushes us back into compassion, into appreciating a love for things? But if only I could...and then, I thought, I can. Opening, embracing--sometimes to push through our ego is difficult. But to lean against that old wooden door, to move the pete moss from under its pathway, kick up the roots that shut it closed, to use the whole weight of our body and swing, crack the bones of the hinges back--perspective! I can feel my way through any day or trial in love, even if I catch my teeth on gnarled sorrow or anger.

And somehow, this made me feel as though the above was possible this morning:

I close my eyes when I listen to Brahms, or sometimes, if I'm on the train, I look into people's faces.