Robert Frost once said – A scholar is someone who sticks to things. A poet is someone who uses whatever sticks to him.
I’m covered by beggar-ticks – knapsekêrel, my Afrikaans readers. I thought I was no stickler, but the empty entries blurt the truth. I’ll handle the little beggars, one tick at a time.
August – skipped writing
September – skipped writing
October – skipped writing
skipped writing: a note to myself, to stay connected.
I’ve been giving here this writing a wide berth – wye draaie geloop. I write the words skipped writing as a reminder – a note to myself, to stay connected, and to keep the relationship. A superficial part of the self condemns the blank dates, hisses failure, and splatters shame. The note to myself is a conscious call from deep – calling me to awareness (i have not written anything in 3 months) and calling me to action (i’m writing now). And how wonderworking the life that arises from this deep otherness being – it is as if I’ve not missed a moment of writing.
Always we begin again: it must be true.
Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?
Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?
When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life –
What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?
the title of a book. it called me. i’m into birds lately. so it seems.
” … to perch on a lonely sill, with only myself for companionship… perhaps to be discovered by One capable of teaching me to sing an untimely song in an unlikely place …
… the life most of us live is a lonely one … wandering through our own wildernesses, eager to find a traveling companion with whom we can be vulnerable together.”
It is a cold day nearing Autumn’s end. My mom is 76 today. Over the phone I heard the tinkle of cups and conversations, the deep whir of my dad’s voice, and I felt peace pulsing across the ether … six days gone we honored my dad’s 80th birthday … goodness and mercy follow us. I sit on my sill (in reality a doughnut shaped cushion), apron strings hugging my body. Wafts of early morn’s baked bread still hovering (not puffing the struggle with a cold sourdough starter). I listen to the sound of woodwork tools. Timber and trestle, shavings and sawdust – young adult hands dovetailing old wood into new dreams. A self figuring out another self – jigsawing pieces together.
And here I am, seesawing – 27 years older than the young working on his life’s puzzle, and 27 years younger than a lived-life of 80. Perched and cold.
… and rigid fingers start typing, pressing words into a blank space … for some One to read and see, for i remember another’s written words – for me, to see
…. to break the bread of our lives with one another through any form of sharing is prayer…
A bird does not sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song.
a Chinese proverb
This bird’s throat is sore. Not from singing too much, but from giving too many answers. She needs to practice singing. And she needs to remember – she’s a bird, and singing is her calling.