Living in Gray

When I walk down to the bus stop on a winter morning, I hope that the gray sky won’t suddenly stick to the gray earth, like a cruddy eye in sickness.

Though our eyelids shut, our eyes still see. So does the sun shine beyond the haze.

In dreams we live for pleasure’s sake, but in waking we cannot.

Alcohol is agitation. Sexual sin? Merely violence in pretty colors.

When the bar closes, I hope I’ll have had my fill. I hope that sleep will come swiftly, that my mind will not notice the body’s reconfiguration. I hope that when our sin is taken and it drops from the body to the hardwood floor, there will be a hollow resonance to satisfy our ears.

But that is complacence. If we could examine our sin like the earwax at the end of a Q-tip, would we mind the ugliness? Would it compel us more?

The joy that fills my cup is pure. It does not come from within but from above, like rain, like energy. If only I could put a bucket outside my door to collect what has fallen overnight, and shower in it. That would sustain me for a few days.

If I could attune myself to the goodness in the air, would I feel it or just have to believe? I notice that when I hold the TV antennae the reception becomes clearer, but I feel no different.

This joy, this energy penetrates the vast expanse of space, the winter cloud cover, the bedroom walls and the layer of skin that conceals mine eyes. It’s there. It finds me. Like a flower that opens to the light, in my better moments, sitting exhausted on a sofa, I let go of control and receive the joy of Heaven. My lips form a smile that nobody sees.