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.
