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 tree. Or circling above it,…
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.
and giving in… It has been a summer of quiet. Avoiding the noise. Relinquishing the pressure of “content”, in terms of both producing and consuming. I wrote very little. Read less than I’d like (awaiting new reading glasses). But listened. I dropped every project on my summer to-do list, except extending my morning meditation to…
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.
Where the trees stop and give way to the plowed fields, the stench of manure is a slap to the senses. This is what life tastes like. Want it or not.
February 19th, 2018 The lamps along the trail were out this morning, and the light from the torch strapped onto my forehead caught the fog of every exhalation – obscuring my view of the path. I reminded myself to lift my knees to clear the roots I couldn’t see. I reminded myself to trust the…
February 10th, 2018 Last week an artist I know via internet, quoted her husband: “You don’t have to justify your life.” Her husband is a poet, so maybe that is why it is so easy to take this statement completely out of context, without taking it out of context. I saw Billy Elliot last week,…
February 10th, 2018 I have nothing to add. No commentary. I had never seen this before. I hope I’m in the minority. Paul Laurence Dunbar.
I do not need to be co-creater in order to be an active participant in an artwork. I do not believe for a moment that the act of listening is passive. I believe more of us would be better at it if it were.
But then there is that other idea: that artworks are ennobling. When biographical facts color and contextualize the experience that is being conveyed through a work of art in a way that is exceedingly human, but not ennobling, do we toss the bibliographical context (and does that falsify the content?). Or do we toss the work of art?
After a glass of wine, my inner critic no longer tells me I need to get the answers right.
After a glass of wine, she actually sounds a lot like Dorothy Parker – ’cause when she’s tipsy she sides with me, and turns on everyone else.
I am the imaginative version of Emilie Dickinson – shouting from the top of the stairs. Genuinely happy for any company, desperately suspicious. Scared.
When I think of this morning, it is never about eating the oatmeal. It’s about the sensual details of a single moment, of an average morning. The heat on my face, the light weight of the spoon pressing against the burping mass. It’s what oatmeal means to me.