Out of the box

"Silver day, how can I polish you?" From a poem by James Schuyler.

Sue proposed an impromptu breakfast picnic out on Sauvie Island. Two mature and six juvenile bald eagles, feathers fluffed and eyes half-closed, were sun-bathing in a freshly-plowed field. Fish were leaping. Geese were migrating. Apple orchards were fluttering in fragrant pink blossom. Clouds in an ever-changing sky were merging and becoming one, then drifting apart.

On this Friday morning, two old Buddhists sat on a small wool rug slung over a driftwood log damp with dew. We sipped tea and munched egg sandwiches, overwhelmed with gratitude for our freedom, our privilege, our good luck. We considered the river, asking ourselves if love, or if anything, ever comes again. Is there something we can step into again? If there is some through-line in all our loves over many years, is it “connection” itself? Or is each connection unique, and is the world born fresh each dawn, each love entirely unlike any other?

I thought I would leave comments off till I could catch up, and I haven’t caught up, but I wonder what others think about about love when it comes near the end of a long life, and about connection. Is it new each time? Or is it something we can have again? I’m interested in ideas about that. I will just listen and not respond. I'm still working on responses to my 730.