11 minutes to the 5:01, the first train to Grand Central.
I step onto the front porch into darkness.
And into Salter’s Burning The Days…at both ends.
Peter Cottontail scurries down the driveway, his white tail bobbing. A four-legged leaf clover.
“Did I stop and allow myself to be surprised? Or did I trudge on in a daze?” David Steindl-Rast prods in Awake, Aware and Alert. Yes, David, Yes.
My head is down, I’m watching for icy patches. The footfall is covered with a moon shadow – the mind bleached with a word slurry. First Harrison: If you are strained, lacerated, enervated…take a night walk as far as you can get from a trace of civilization – a dance, and the ghost that follows you, your moon-cast shadow, is your true, androgynous parent. And then Kalanithi: my specklike existence against the immensity of the mountain, the earth, the universe and yet still feel your own two feet on the talus. Lacerated. Enervated. Specklike. Immensity. My two feet. Flooded with Gratitude. I keep walking.
4 minutes to departure. I pick up the pace.
On the platform. A handful of us are spread down the ramp standing under the lamp posts. 43° F. January 27th. A so-soft wisp of a breeze passes, a gentle tug towards Spring – my Soul rises along with Mary Oliver‘s soul dance: “Rumi said, There is no proof of the soul. But isn’t the return of spring and how it springs up in our hearts a pretty good hint?”
The train rolls. The Quiet Car. I close my eyes to rest and I ride with Sontag and her drowning in silence; neurotically tired, restless. And from the rails to The Road with Cormac McCarthy who scolds: “Just remember that the things you put into your head are there forever, he said. You might want to think about that.” Set out the trash DK. Set out the trash.
Grand Central Station @ 5:55. Hakuna Matata is pumped into the Main Concourse. Have you ever heard music here before? David, I’m fully awake, aware and alert. I pause to listen to a few bars richocheting through the Hall.
Hakuna Matata, what a wonderful phrase
Hakuna Matata, ain’t no passing craze
It means no worries for the rest of your days
It’s our problem free philosophy, Hakuna Matata