paw print

I am sitting in a dried out lake bed. The ground consists of cracked mud. Right in front of me there's a beautiful patch, broken into irregular polygons, separated by deep crevasses, somehow very reminiscent of ice: glaciers or sea ice. But what has caught my attention in this moment is a paw print, now dried in the sun, a paw print in the mud. It looks like a dog's paw to me.

And seeing this paw print, it reminds me of the nature of memories. Something happens: the paw sinks a little into the soft mud. Perhaps the dog is lapping up the last of the water, but part of the moment is the dog's paw sinking into the mud. It's an actual happening. It has some vitality to it, some aliveness. It's in the moment, sensuous, a lived experience. And then the moment passes, and the dog moves on. And yet this memory remains, a memory slowly drying in the mud, becoming a fixed thing. It's no longer alive. It's no longer in the moment. It's become the past. And it's become withered, no longer sensuous, no longer vital, no longer relevant. And yet that memory persists. And it will persist until the rains come again, and soften the mud once more.

So it is with our memories. They are a desiccated, potted history, of no real relevance. They are dead. There is no sensuousness in our memories.

This is what this imprint of a dog's paw is telling me today.