Blurbs & Reviews
Maybe the moon and the stars want to take us by surprise. It’s that simple. I broke my own rules this morning to read the news headlines, and to learn what the scientists can predict. Posted at ten thirty p.m.: Tomorrow morning will bring the chance of a lifetime. So … Continue Reading January 21st, 2019
I haven’t run in 5 days. Last Monday I felt flat, and I felt the fear rise. The last time I felt this lifeless just 2 kilometers into a run, I had a blood clot in my pelvis and spent two weeks in the hospital. I couldn’t get to sleep … Continue Reading January 20th, 2019
Finally a thin blanket of snow to brighten the morning. I run with metal coils strapped under my shoes, and a slight tension in my gut: the bridges can be icy under the powder, and the dog can dart suddenly between the trees. Everything is new again for him. For … Continue Reading January 15th, 2019
The new year is always predictable with its forced variations on the routine: the end-of-term rush of student evaluations, early meetings and final rehearsals. Piecing together a devised production is like designing a quilt using everyone’s talents. It’s a joy and a privilege, and a sometimes-overwhelming responsibility that keeps me … Continue Reading January 12, 2019
Returning to work is always difficult after a stretch of quiet. It’s like surfacing suddenly in the white water of a familiar river. And often there are moments of doubt – of confused orientation – of not recognizing the mechanisms of my own limbs. It takes so much effort to … Continue Reading January 5th, 2019
No such thing as a new beginning, but perhaps a turning, a point on the spiral to take in the view. This morning I woke late to the wind. The sun was up and the sky a flat white. The crows who fly their morning route already in the neighbor’s … Continue Reading January 1, 2019
PDF: CV Ren Powell des2018 komplett
The world is never, really quiet. There are waves in the darkness that beat a rhythm through our very cells.
An electric light at dawn, anticipating the lengthening night.
This little window of autumnal sunrises before dark creeps over my mornings.
The last morning of a summer
of unexpected ease.
An arch of light on the horizon.
Summer is leaving the lake now. There is a quieting all along the trail.
Footfall and breath, and an absence of birdsong.
The sky was still dark at 4.45 when I woke to meditate. White by the time we hit the trail. These last mornings running in the half-light before the cows are taken in, and all the geese have flown south, I breathe it all in.
Now, while the world is wet and the fallen pine needles still green.
Not dreaming, but stepping on egg shells this morning.
It’s been a week since I heard the cuckoo, though the songbirds are still here, getting on with the effort of living before they leave us to another season of darkness and crows.