The high country/ music with yoga/fluctuating into the grave.

 

I woke on the sofa, alternating through impact, as the dead kept watch. He is everywhere these days, simultaneously crushing and cursing me, pulling me into his grave. At times I fear I will slip all the way. But then I try to rationalise the light, his life his choices, until it all falls down. Today I didnt punish instead I meditated  encounters with the high terrain, the wide, clouded, light of the rim, the high, wintering mountains, which are distant enough to cause comfort. Horizontal focus, strong.( but not so close). I let them guide me, through the out back of the rough lands, the bad places of beauty, that marks this place, until I am stopped, on some distant point, stepping through the grief, doing  more Truby. I have to let him go,because it is all too unbelievable. 

Tonight I did yoga, with no distractions, just music in action, till I sat at my own dinner table, and ate right. The slowness, did something, putting the brain right, because now  I can write. I just have to keep avoiding, Francisco's open windows.  MB