Hexagrams

I: Compost decaying in the frozen rain. I just threw the I Ching with Eleanor in my arms. With regard to my manuscript, it yielded two hexagrams: “Limitation” and “Youthful Folly.” The counsel is to know balance, to be patient, to assert, and to receive. In short, the counsel is a paradox. It says, “Don’t throw the I Ching. Figure it out for yourself.” I ask it to be more specific.

II: Compost glowing in the freezing rain. I throw the I Ching again. I ask it about my travel plans and our family’s holiday down South. It replies, “Consider quoting Bill Moyers as infrequently as possible” and “When confronted with injustice, intervene.” I ask it why it never dated in college. It is silent and wounded.

III: Compost thinking about its past lives in the pin-points of rain. The I Ching throws me. I tumble in space, past plates, quilts, and scrambled eggs. My daughter catches me. She says, “Only play with toys, not life. Life is serious. It needs your attention and balance.” I ask her if she has become Confucian. She says, “ I caught you, didn’t I?”

IV: Compost meditating on the county line. Me: “You are learning about death, and you have arrived in multiples. Given that, how does one find balance in art and life?” The lemon rind curls. The broccoli wilts. A translucent grub pushes an apple seed into its hungry maw. Above, the clouds are peeling apart. I am caught again.

V: Compost becoming dirt in the winter rain. It is a story about loss, and a certain kind of speed that carries us through time. My life is simpler than ever before. The world, more complicated. I sift through the father figures in my mind, in search of comfort. I search the faces of friends for what endures between us. I hold her at the waist, and we talk.

VI: Compost composting in the bin I built. The I Ching looks comfortable on its shelf. The dog has stopped scratching at last. All the rain rolls downhill and my wife has driven off to take a yoga class. I am tumbling with my daughter, past my hang-ups and old hangouts. We wear our winter coats. We sing the song of the grub.

The Judgment:
Compost decaying in the frozen rain. A dream of quoting Bill Moyers just the right amount. A dream of a world full of old growth and pines. We get the eggs perfect, and baby can dance. We wear our antlers out and stomp the galling malaise. Fathers and mothers know all the songs by heart. Rain drifts to earth like a million soft hammers.