Rainy Mornings, Diner Booths

A chilly, wet, autumn morning through the streets of New York.  Coming out of the subway and feeling the wind whip the mist along the pavement, up the buildings, a warm smell of something, from a bakery, a food cart.  On a street somewhere some one is walking.   Maybe it is someone I know, someone I've loved, or will love one day.  I'm looking at all the faces and searching, and not looking at any of the faces and feeling.  This time of year is a departure.  The sun is leaving us, the warmth is leaving us.  We never think of the arrival of the dark, the arrival of the cold.  

So many departures come to mind on a morning like this.  How many departures does one have in life?  

I've been reading Nurtured by Love the classic Suzuki text I've read at least twice before.  But this is the first time I've read it since having been in Japan.  It takes me back a little.  I understand Suzuki, his way of life and way seeing the world in differently than I did before.  To Westerners, he is a magical person.  He is indeed, but his thoughts about pedagogy are certainly the product of the classic approach to Japanese education and culture.  It takes me back.  I read a few lines of Japanese this morning for the first time in months.  There is an irreplaceable feeling there.  It's a hidden alcove inside of me that can never be closed, even if it gets shriveled and shoved under all the pertinent parts of living now and living to come.  I've been opened in yet another way.  How many ways can one be opened?  How many times can one love?

With the cold, we've started a diner search.  An hour spent in a booth, across from a solitary woman reading a book, a well-lipsticked and laid back waitress with a light evening, a decent cup of hot chocolate, and some horrendous cherry pie.  One diner down, and so many more to discover in the upcoming cold that approaches this city.