Yesterday the right angle triangle of mast and boom appeared in the square of my window, and I was forced to look out at the day differently, listen to the clank and clang of the harbor with a new ear, believe in a sky defined by the ninety-forty-fifty authority: a fitting rule for that day and onward into this chapter.
Life is full of geometry and we find our days delineated by scores of polygons, each with its own formulas: family, work, friends, passions, education, the enrichment of arts, exercise, nest care, body and vanity maintenance, nutrition, and all those books stacked on a table. The rest of the proverbial iceberg, a polygon of polygons, waits out of sight, teeming with the angled lives of id, ego, and super-ego, that great storehouse of the unconscious and nearly conscious and too conscious. To give it a home, to keep it controlled, we rely on lines, rules, and formulas, and for me, in this age of life, it works to attend to them one theorem at a time, to calculate how much area in my life I will assign to each. It is a daily task. Today: ninety degrees to work, ninety to love and all its duties.
Attention to work I feel compelled to do is like rigging and unfurling a sail. Difficult to begin, each day, but thrilling once begun. I am full of gratitude to the Universe and all that geometric machinery its Mind has put in motion, sustaining me and pushing me forward with a good wind; the family circle and my charted square of friends: the waters and the flags flying on the yardarm. New book coming, new book coming, the square of window and the new triangle moored at my back.