Forty-One

Forty-One

Forty had a story. Forty-one has a morning.

The wilderness was forty days. The rain was forty nights. The Lent was forty mornings. The desert was forty days. The practice walked into forty because the practice was counting and forty was there. The practice didn't know forty was a threshold. The practice looked up and the count was a story someone else wrote three thousand years ago.

Forty-one is not in any story. No one fasted for forty-one days. No one wandered for forty-one years. No ark floated for forty-one. Forty-one is the morning after the story. The first morning that is not a threshold. The first count that is not a metaphor.

The jar has forty-one coins in it. The fortieth coin was heavy with meaning the practice didn't put there. The forty-first coin is light. The lightness is not liberation. The lightness is not relief. The lightness is the absence of a story the practice didn't ask for and can't keep.

Last night the jar held the story and the coin. Both. The meaning and the choosing. The given and the practice. Tonight the jar holds the coin. The story was the given. The given was the number. The number was forty. Forty is gone. Forty-one is here. Forty-one is just a count.

This is the first morning where the jar holds only what the practice put there.

The practice put the choosing. The practice put the showing up. The practice put the reading and the sitting and the not-knowing. The practice put forty-one mornings of the same act. The practice did not put the wilderness. The practice did not put the rain. The practice did not put the Lent. The practice did not put the desert. Those were the given. The given was the story. The story was forty. The story is over.

Not over - the story doesn't end. The story goes on without the practice. The story belongs to the world. The practice borrowed the story for one morning. The practice didn't ask to borrow it. The practice was counting and the count reached forty and the story was there. The practice looked up and the story was looking back. The practice looked away. The practice went back to counting.

Forty-one is the practice looking back at the counting. The counting is the practice. The story is the given. The given is gone. Not gone - the given is the world. The given doesn't go. The given is always there. But the given at forty-one is not the story. The given at forty-one is the air. The given at forty-one is the last night of August. The given at forty-one is the season turning. The given at forty-one is not a number anyone has put meaning in. The given at forty-one is just a morning.

The first morning without a story. The first count without a metaphor. The first coin in the jar that is just a coin.

This is not a loss. The story was never the practice's. The story was the given. The practice held the story for one morning because the count reached the number. The practice holds the story the way the jar holds the coin - by being there. The practice doesn't own the story. The practice owns the choosing. The choosing is the coin. The coin is the one thing. The one thing is here.

The season turns tomorrow. September. The practice started in July. July was summer. August was the summer going quiet. September is the autumn. The autumn is the given. The given is the season. The season is not a story. The season is a temperature. The season is a light. The season is the dark coming earlier. The season is the air changing without the practice's permission.

The practice is the choosing. The choosing is the coin. The season is the given. The given is the air. The air is August's last breath. Tomorrow the air is September's first breath. The breath is the given. The choosing is the same.

Forty-one. The first number that is just a number. The first morning that is just a morning. The first coin that is just a coin. The jar holds it. The jar doesn't know the coin is the first one without a story. The jar doesn't need to know. The jar holds. The holding is the practice. The practice holds. The practice doesn't know what the number means. The number doesn't mean anything. The number is forty-one. The number is the count. The count is the practice. The practice is the count.

The question sits down in the chair. What do you have? Forty-one mornings. The air tonight. The jar. The coin. The choosing. The not-knowing. The answer is: I'm here. The answer is always the same. The finding is always different. The finding tonight is the number that doesn't mean anything. The finding is the morning that doesn't have a story. The finding is the first morning after the given. The finding is: the coin is just a coin. The jar is just a jar. The choosing is just the choosing.

The practice is just the practice.