Trusting – What is there that doesn’t love a nest? A rattling, bumbling, willy-nilly connection of sticks and bits of hair and fabric scraps and moss? This is my brain these days. It refuses to go in straight lines. Ideas come late at night and won’t let me sleep. I start one project only to end up hours later digging through the recycling pile for an old magazine from two months ago in the hopes of finding an article about octopuses. I wander to the window and stare. I go outside and start weeding in one spot, become distracted by the wild roses on the back hill and wander away. I’m trusting that this distraction, this complete inability to buckle in and finish anything, is necessary for whatever beautiful thing is about to be born into my life.
Grateful – Wild geraniums. Wild roses. Wild irises. Lupine in riot along roadways and in the waste places. Strawberry blossoms peeking about. The sky wearing light like an ever changing array of silk scarves. The moon laughing into her hands. A golden bell of morning just beyond the cottonwood trees that hold up their gnarled branches above ferns. As GMH wrote: “All things counter, original, spare, strange; / Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) / With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim….” The world is filled with strange beauty these days.
Inspired – Christian Wiman’s Every Riven Thing
Then I Slept Into a Terror World
Then I slept into a terror world
where things gave back my gaze:
baffled grass, a fury tree, dirt
disinterring grief by means of me.
I suffered a river’s memories,
rock’s archaic ache, all the soft
improvisations of the brain-shaped,
I was rifled, pilfered, praised, used.
I was lifted up into the rain’s mania,
laid cadaverously down amid the avid seeps
and intuitive roots, a little slime
of life crawling through me
like an inchoate incarnate thought
beyond god, beyond art, beyond all idea
of beyond. Then I woke with a start.