I haven't written anything, in what seems like ages. I have begun many times, only to discard the results as the distractions of the day & my ever wandering mind create a muddled mess of my thoughts & words. I suppose I could say then, that life has been good, peaceful, steady, with no new crises to push me into a prayerful or meditative place. Then again, the steadiness of my days also means no grand adventures or startling revelations. My sleep has been deep and dreamless, my days filled with the monotonous business of living. We are in the midst of the last languorous days of August. In a week school begins again, and life will assume a new rhythm, and I find I am torn between wanting summer's lazy torpor to linger and longing for the structure & purpose that comes in autumn. (Maybe, though, that is just the eternal student in my heart, eager to go back to the business of learning)
In any case my heart still longs to write, even if the thoughts that dance behind my eyes refuse to let me find words to express them. Fear and doubt torpedo my ideas, and the more time that passes the more I manage to convince myself that returning to my writing should be some kind of genius, although in truth to me it is not so much what I write, but that I write. Like prayer the more I do the easier it becomes. On Sunday morning, at long last, the idea, the metaphor I had been wrestling with finally let me grasp it. I reached into my bag, retrieved pen & notebook and poured out the phrases-not the prose I had been unable to tame, but my surprising first love, poetry.
In a caragana bower, under a sun bleached summer sky,
Weaving a garland of goldenrod and sage brush,
Prairie grass and wild flowers;
The endless song of grasshoppers and killdeer, the murmuring breeze, the cry of the hawk,
Circling overhead
No maiden, I, but pure in heart
Waiting for that rare & elusive Unicorn,
Is it you? Is this finally the mythical beast, Resting in my arms?
No comments:
Post a Comment