I was doing some thinking back through the past two months of Inquiry and Yearning, as my discussion group declared March and April to be, and wrote some thoughts down from what I observed or was mulling over. They are probably a bit random, and I guess they feel a bit incomplete to me, but I thought I’d post them anyway.
I am called, with curiosity
Down to the deeps, trailing a hand
keeping me grounded—
Here the earth moves
And the water glows
Cities crumble and fall
Still I am here.
Water rushes by, snow falls,
A path is carved
It pools and flows downwards,
hungry for new knowledge,
gathered from the ground
that it overtakes.
I’ve been feeling a bit like one of the Called lately with all the exploring I’ve been doing. ^^ Maybe I should add Eddy County to my list of places to travel to, and see if I can find the Cleft?
I spent those two months itching for springtime, when I can go outside with more regularity and enjoy the world better. I like feeling connected to everything, which seems to be a much more present feeling on warm spring days.
Stars above me, ground below,
rocking me among the trees.
We are here, one among them
Stretched out naked to the universe—
what is there to hide
from what has been here all along?
What is there to hide,
When the breeze is one of us,
And the grass is our skin,
And we are all together?
It is all in us anyway.
The past few months have also brought me back into more contact with poetry, reading both new ones and old favorites, so it’s not been hard to start hearing lines in my head now that spring has arrived.
When the dawn washes over everything
that early morning yellow
And the breeze blows blue through my window
waking the curtains with their yawning rustle,
The mother mourning dove coos her soft
foggy song and
Our world is drenched freshly in diamond water.
Thinking about what yearning is involved in the artistic process:
There is something in the ringing, unfinished note
the incomplete artistry, the half-filled page
Which aches for completion: fill me
Bring me to an end and
pin me to the wall for all to see.
So the graceful curve of my drawing
calls me to pour myself in ,
spilling from my fingers
into the milky white page
And, having emptied myself of this—
my suspended paradox completed—
it asks me what I will do now,
and I have no answer left.
I enjoy Winter Sorbeck’s lecture about Design vs. Art far, far too much.
And last month I was also reading some classic scifi stories, which made me think of my grandfather’s expansive collection of science fiction paperbacks from the mid-20th century, all of which are gradually disintegrating, their covers bleaching, their papers taking on a certain aged yellow texture and dry smell which I’ve always found delightful whenever I’ve picked one up.
uncurl you like an old map
and breathe in your aging paper smell—
dusty and warm from decades of thinking;
crinkling at the edges but earnestly
conveying your contents,
yielding them up.
belonging to a different age,
you are shy and yet not unconfident,
filling up my senses—
so I spread out your pages
to be part of your story.
May is Imagination, so we’ll see where that takes me!