Sitting out in the sunlight I suddenly become aware of my own lack of sensitivity unto myself and the inner lover the poet (Kabir) speaks of.  And how could that be, one asks, me of all people, at this age, after such a life as one thought would be conducive, as if one had been not one's own inner lover, but one's inner frat boy.

I go for a walk in the woods, along the path by the creek, and the path, the earth, is soft under foot, and the perfect amount of firmness for just this sort of a walk, the stream to be there and then described, the woods, the leaves brown and laying on the ground, having done their job of summer.  We are made of this same earth, how could we not love this same earth, and indeed not be Whitmanesque poetic lovers of the same earth and ourselves?  Have we not shunned a certain part of that self, the self the child knew when he too walked in woods and by streams long ago?

It is dusk, and one apologizes to himself, walks more, enjoys being outside, and then walks back to the small city and a bookstore where people come and go, then alone, heads home, carrying a new found knowledge, that the inner lover, eros, is the same as that spirituality one craves for in this (broken) world.