Learning Not to Write

I’m not writing these days, though they are being written.

The words are morning walks, ambient music, and long naps,

Colored pencil drawings and unfulfilling novels.

The adjectives? Useless, aimless, undirected.

How else to quiet the mind of earning’s achievement?

What does it mean to not work? For a body to listen?

Few of us know the shades or tinctures of this old way of being,

A life within the breath, directed by the body.

I’m not writing these days, though they are being written.

Home is a sacred grotto for a raccoon Mama and her babies.

They trundle up the sacred stones, the height of Mary’s memorial,

Then disappear into the vines and pines enclosed by a cloudless sky.

A white cat finds the pool to quench its thirst in the humid morning mist.

It has a gray tail and gray-gold eyes hungry for more than I can offer.

And did you know it’s possible to pray and smoke at the same time?

I saw a gruff soul doing just that one morning. He slouched on the bench

In his cacky shorts, a white t-shirt, and bright orange flip-flops.

My internal flame flared up, bright red with indignation, but

who says secondary smoke is not incense, to the One who can see?

I’m not writing these days, though they are being written.

Reedy bagpipes waft through the air at an Inn in the Glen

An accordion rests in its musty case, a sign of injury but forgiveness too.

An e-mail from a friend, replete with birthday-suit basking

And a question, “Is this what you mean by covenantal companionship?”

Ah for the porch sit and glass of wine in which to answer!

Rows of colored markers, each a different shade that beckons.

I hear only the six or seven I can imagine imagining.

How do they speak so much, so many, so softly to others?

Then there was the braised pork shank, atop a pool of demi-glace

and creamy potatoes; I don’t like pork but it wasn’t half bad.

I’m not writing these days, though they are being written.

An atheist mystic comes to stay, unexpected companionship

For a theist, immersed in the invitation of the familiar unknown.

A tin cup with twisted handle, a mother’s measure become

An artistic habit, shared between brothers. It trucks in flour, yeast,

salt, and water—all in the perfect bowl. Then a new lineage-bearer

receives the cup—part antique, part functionary, all gift.

A reunion of families writes its newest chapter. Uncles, aunts

Cousins, and more, red hair, freckles, and a sardonic ease,

shared across years and yearnings, a few of them spoken.

Treasure to be discovered, unexpectedly, in the turn of a phrase.

I’m not writing these days, though they are being written.

A new author appears to be in charge, but who? She is one who delights

In images, connections unseen, intimacies of mind and heart.

She breathes in and out with a slow paced walk, loose clothes,

And a love of unsweetened herbal tea. She is curious about herbs,

Just like the Madonna heretics she adores. 

She’s drawn to the unexpected. Or is the unexpected expectable?

My cautious beloved strains to perfect himself at an imperfect job.

I strain to not strain, carrying our anxieties deep within, precisely

where they do not belong. So our bodies strain to be heard amidst

perfection, imperfection, anxieties, and love. A bit of a raucous chorus,

harmonized when two souls find a breath, tell a joke, ease into the future

with the help of bath salts, a Jacuzzi, and a nice pinot gris.

I’m not writing these days, but I am learning. I’m learning

That life is too short to hurry all the time. I’m learning to play

The accordion, if only in the safety of my own mind. I’m learning

To remember. I had begun to forget the discipline it takes to listen, 

Love first, then respond to the world’s frailty and fear. I’m learning

To reconsider, but not everything. You see, not everything

requires consideration to be received. Most of all, I’m learning

There are beautiful seasons when life writes its own days

On the canvas of our bodies, minds. Being written is a wondrous gift

We can welcome, observe, even cherish in words not written.