12.15.25

Writing a letter to __, I remembered that film K and I were obsessed with in college. I wrote to _: There was another film - a Russian film I've thought about for years. In one scene, there's a man cradling a lit candle, shielding it from being blown out by the wind as he walks across a field. He walks slowly, as if the candle's flame is more important than his life. Or maybe it IS his life. 

In a bit I'll walk around the monastery grounds to look for pine and mullen to include in my letter to him. 

I'm much too lazy to look up the film now, but I suppose you can, if you're reading this. 

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I still think about _, who once told me they loved my brown skin. I do miss our wordless conversations, our encounters using only touch. She wanted me to tumble with them to the bottom of a dark, soundless pit. And I wanted to go with her, not only because I could feel her hand in mine in the dark, but also because with her I thought I could just barely glimpse the moon and stars overhead. 

When we touched, there was the sense that life was possible between us. Or was I wrong? I'll always want her. Or am I wrong again?

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The words have been coming back to me, which I suppose is a pseudonym for myself. Am I made of only words and language? That week I was sick, I was beyond desperation. But when I woke up and walked outside and looked at the world, everything was so beautiful I couldn't argue with it. 

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My friend, the monk ___ _____, shared yesterday about his mother's brief visit to the monastery. I had sat with them during dinner once. His mother looked at him and his brother. She said simply, with a smile, "I really loved being your mom." 

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Yesterday we shoveled snow for hours to clear the walkways. This morning, a new layer of snow had fallen. So I walked as slowly as I could through it, as if cradling a flame between my hands, trying to remember the path.