I love the phrase “everything that rises must converge,” although I do not understand it. I picture a flock of black birds rising upward and converging with one mind; I picture the smoke of many chimneys rising and separating. Two people who rise together will converge, if they are lucky, if they have enough love in their hearts to understand that everything arises and everything falls away.

 

The sheen of the flowing river makes being alone bearable. The morning is already humid. The child across the lane has begun to plunk the keys of her piano, pockets of sound to hedge against despair.

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from Mother Firetrucker Riffs on Love, available now on Amazon