Trusting Grateful Inspired Friday – Every Riven Thing edition

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
~Christian Wiman

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,
breeze-shaped clouds.

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.

Trusting Grateful Inspired Friday – The world isn’t logical; it’s a song

Trusting – I’ve spent some time this week in the greenhouse, puttering away with the seedlings therein, as well as some lovely flowers that I’ve potted but don’t dare put out in the variable weather just yet. The radishes, mustard and arugula are bounding forward, and now they are joined by tomato, zucchini, trout’s back lettuce and several other salad green varieties. Inside the house basil, kale (two varieties), broccoli (two varieties), and cauliflower (two varieties) are looking robust and hale. I put my trust that given the right conditions, healthy soil, water, air, warmth and sunlight, most seeds will flourish. We just need to be mindful to give our plants (and ourselves, our loved ones and the world around us) the best possible conditions for growth.

Grateful – All around me are miracles. Little ones every day. May I be as sensible as the leaf that unfolds into them.

Inspired – “I wouldn’t be surprised if poetry – poetry in the broadest sense, in the sense of a world filled with metaphor, rhyme, and recurring patterns, shapes, and designs – is how the world works. The world isn’t logical; it’s a song.”  ― David Byrne, Bicycle Diaries

Trusting Grateful Inspired Friday – Your obsessions, your story, your voice edition

dancing trees waiting for spring

Trusting – We are drawn to subjects that represent the crossroads of what the world needs to hear and what we need to understand. Such subjects become the metaphor through which we make sense of our lives. Think back to the books you took out of the library when you were young. The subjects that you looked up in the encyclopedia. What drew you? Trust in those deep-seated interests. Consider how they may be the binding thread in your creative work.

Grateful – The world is filled with story. We get to be part of different stories each day, each moment. The stories braid around each other to create something new, something wholly our own. Many things can be taken away from us, our homes, our health, our individual freedoms, but no one can take away our stories.

Inspired – I’m reading Terry Tempest Williams’s new book When Women Were Birds: Fifty-four Variations on Voice. The book examines Williams’s relationship with her mother, with nature, and with her own creative work. It’s a meditative book, resonant  like a finely crafted string instrument or the scent of rain on evening wind.

From her website:

Terry Tempest Williams’s mother told her: “I am leaving you all my journals, but you must promise me you won’t look at them until after I’m gone.” It was a shock to Williams to discover that her mother had kept journals. But not as much of a shock as what she found when the time came to read them.

“They were exactly where she said they would be: three shelves of beautiful cloth-bound books . . . I opened the first journal. It was empty. I opened the second journal. It was empty. I opened the third. It too was empty . . . Shelf after shelf after shelf, all of my mother’s journals were blank.” What did Williams’s mother mean by that? In fifty-four chapters that unfold like a series of yoga poses, each with its own logic and beauty, Williams creates a lyrical and caring meditation of the mystery of her mother’s journals. When Women Were Birds is a kaleidoscope that keeps turning around the question “What does it mean to have a voice?”