Very uncomfortable this morning. It’s a lovely day. Summer has peaked now, and the days are blue and breezy, the nights chilly enough for a sweater. The light is cooling, turning from gold to silver, and in a week or so the leaves will start to turn. Mountain summers are short. I’m waiting for something to happen. Maybe nothing ever will. Any state is manageable as long as you know it’s not forever. I want to know the answer. I want to understand what this is for, this sense of withheld resolution.
If I stop and do some yoga, play the piano, it goes away, but as soon as I stop, there it is again, that extremely uncomfortable sense of listening for something, held in expectancy. Some part of my mind says “The baby is dead. It will never be born but never leave.” Then I pace around the apartment, listen to talking books, feeling hungry and restless. If I were a smoker (I was once) I’d be lighting one cigarette from the remains of another and drinking coffee (I don’t do that any more either).
Blindness also has its way of reducing possibilities for distraction. I am sitting spang in the Four of Cups. There is something both immanent and imminent, something that will not resolve or emerge, although my whole body is asking for it.
Immanence and nothingness rub shoulders. Is it the pressure of waiting for something to emerge, or is it the difficulty of living with the fact that there really isn’t anything at all. I think about the old Donovan song: “First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.” Standing fully in either one for very long gets intolerable.
The Four of Cups is maybe a little like being a sound wave but never getting to hear it.