The valley spirit never dies.
Call it the mystery, the woman.
the Door of the Woman,
is the root
of earth and heaven.
Forever this endures, forever.
And all its uses are easy.
We are bound to the infinite. To eternity. To forever.
We live only briefly, but even still are bound within the great river of infinite flux that is existence.
Call it whatever you want.
I think of this often, and it’s a comfort to me. To know that I’m an infinitesimal aspect of a larger, grander mechanism. That my life has little to no purpose or meaning. That life is not a test. That existence is far bigger and far beyond what I can even begin to imagine or conceptualize.
Minnesota is a desert of ice and snow this time of year. This day. And while it’s painfully cold to be outside, there’s a kind of beauty in this seasonal devastation. To go, in just a few months from impossible, vibrant greens, to the cascading autumnal moonsets, and then to fall into this barren oblivion:
I’ve lived many places, but this will always be my home. This place has shaped me. Made me. And it is a part of me. Maybe the biggest part, despite how little kinship I often feel to this place. This white Deathly season, caustically cold.
It’s a foundation, root, and sky to my life.
And I would trade nothing for these Minnesota skies.