“Aussie, I don’t want to get up this morning.”

“You have to feed me.”

“I went to bed late last night, didn’t rest enough, and now just want to go back to sleep.”

“Sleep? Sleep? What about your Bodhisattva vow to return again and again, lifetime after lifetime, to free all beings—and you can’t even get up in the morning to feed one dog, Moi?”

“Please, Aussie, I can’t think about this, I’m too tired.”

“Tired? Vows are vows!”

“Could we get a little gentler here, Auss? You know, I’m one of “all beings” too, I could use a break.”

“Oh, you’re the least important of all of them.”

I used to think that, too.

The Palestinian Gazan poet, Mosab Abu Toha, wrote:

She asked her teacher:

If there are four directions,

Then why do we have just two feet?

I’ve asked that question, too. If life is so big (the Buddhists say there are ten directions, not four), why do we have just two feet and two hands? Why can’t we have an infinite number of arms, like Kwan-yin? How are we supposed to be like the goddess of compassion if we have just two arms and she has so many?

And that’s assuming that everything works. That your one head is fairly clear, that one of your legs hasn’t been mangled in an accident like my housemate’s, that your fingers aren’t arthritic and that the blood circulates freely to your toes even in the coldest of weather.

Another poet wrote:

We were fashioned from clay in a hurry.
Poor throwing may mean it didn’t matter
to the makers if their pots cracked.

Yes, yes, I know what spiritual types say about cracks, that they’re important, that that’s how the light comes in. The Japanese know full well that that’s what makes the cup or the bowl. But to be thrown so poorly and carelessly—and then be asked to hold the world? To contain all feelings like liquids, from apple cider to vinegar? To serve everyone even with gaps and holes?

Hanukah candles, Christmas lights, Kwanzaa candles, Buddhist candles for incense, Lori’s fragrant candle downstairs—why are we doing all this? What are we lighting lights for?

We yearn for something we can hardly articulate, miss something we never had and can’t describe. Phrases like peace on earth or good will towards men (and women) fail us not just because they’re cliches, not just because they feel so distant, but because they don’t capture the essence of that longing.

Everything starts from that. Every song and story, every power move by a breakdancer, every sketch an artist does of the Ficus tree by the receptionist, every snowman created by a little boy or girl—those aren’t some objects they create but mirrors of aspiration, of secrets so deep inside we can’t burrow into them in the ordinary way.

I’m reminded of the mystics who say that God, always absolute, always One, has no way of perceiving Her creations except through their eyes, feelings, and experiences. She had to create humans, water glasses, firetrucks and squirrels to see life through them. Maybe because when it’s just one thing, one absolute, it gets boring.

Do I create—whatever I create—for the same reason? Right now, I’m writing about an 85-year-old woman approaching dementia who makes a cross-country trip to meet the love of her life whom she hasn’t seen for almost 70 years. Do I write about her out of real-life inspiration (an old friend from years ago) or because I wish to come alive in a new way, and the way I do that is to see, touch, and listen through a fictional self? Not because I feel loved or unloved, those psychological insights go only so far. What am I sensing through creation that I can’t find in other ways?

Early Friday evening, and outside it’s all white. Footprints cover the whiteness like sketches made by a great artist over the previous 24 hours, hints of the wild creatures of the night and their mysterious lives in the woods. I’m not one of those that can identify them, but I recognize great art when I see it.

End-of-year regrets? None. Fuck-ups in 2024? Lots. But even as I use this season to lie low, I never miss a chance to walk with Aussie (don’t believe what she says). I lost a glove but still appreciate the bite of a cold morning. And, lately, repeat to myself morning after morning the following words from Ecclesiastes: “Happy are those whose hearts do not condemn them, and who have not given up hope.”