Lawrence Raab It's hard to be happy, harder still to talk about it. Walking together through these intimate woods, the coins of light scattered all around us, it's enough to praise the weather. No need to disentangle what we feel from what we think. Or even to acknowledge the world, not far away, assembling its important troubles. The best days, like this one, float at the borders of our lives, as unremarkable as light, or the fluttering of leaves. We know we can't live here. Perhaps the hermit, having turned his back on us all, thinks he lives here. Or the saint, forever trusting in another life. But we don't envy them. At evening they must sit down alone to bless their hunger, which, perhaps, also makes them happy, then uneasy, as if they had betrayed some hard allegiance to feel this way, the way we feel. |