May 16, 2010 § Leave a comment
Write a Book a Year
Well the wild ride into the earth was thrilling,
really, scared as I was and torn and sore.
I say what other woman could have managed it?
My life before then
picking flowers against my destiny
what glance, what meeting,
who was watching, what we don’t know we know,
the hour we chose and we are chosen.
And suddenly the dead my mission,
the dark my mission.
He’d find me pounding out the hours.
Spring is for women, spring clawing at our hearts.
We are pulled forward by our hair
to be anointed in the barren garden.
I want the dark back, the bloody well of it,
my face before the fire,
or lie alone on the cold stone and find a way
to sleep awhile, wake clear and wander.
— Deborah Digges
May 14, 2010 § Leave a comment
in the world
is usual today.
the first morning.
Come quickly—as soon as
these blossoms open,
This world exists
as a sheen of dew on flowers.
these pine trees
keep their original color,
is different in spring.
Seeing you is the thread
that ties me to this life—
If that knot
were cut this moment,
I’d have no regret.
I watch over
the spring night—
but no amount of guarding
is enough to make it stay.
— From Izumi Shikibu’s love poems
May 13, 2010 § Leave a comment
“Don’t ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive, and go and do that, because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”
— From a friend of a good friend.
May 10, 2010 § Leave a comment
I leave every weekend with this unbelievable feeling of weightlessness, and I know it’s because I’ve got our days spent together on my mind. Our moments passed still linger on my lips and hands and in my heart, and I taste everything that is good about love.
You remind me about everything that is good about love.
May 5, 2010 § Leave a comment
On most days, I convince myself that I violently hate what I do. It doesn’t help that what I do now is just for the interim. In my mind, I’m three months ahead from now, I’m gearing up for Columbia, and I’ve got a whole new life. By living ahead, I constantly forget to look around to realize that I’m still in May, that I may actually miss what May could be if I don’t take a second to feel what right now is.
It’s hard because I’ve always looked to the future. I can almost see the path I’m going to take in the horizon, but I’m tripping all over the place where I currently am. Lately, I’ve been working the days through on autodrive. Until today. Until I realized again that I am good at what I do. I write, and I’m even better at it when I try — when I give of myself. And, lately, at work, I haven’t been giving any of myself. Perhaps writing for someone else isn’t where my heart is or where my future is, but it is where my hands can make a difference now. Every day in May. I can make a difference through my words, right now, and that may not be true two months from now. But in May and June, I have words that drive change, and I should give it all I’ve got.
Today, I self-edited two senior-level writing projects for publication, two pieces I’d had such a hard time bringing to fruition over the past week. But today I remembered who I am, what my capabilities are, and I rocked them. And then, as usual, I’d been assigned several last-minute, high-priority items to edit, to transform jumbled thoughts into inspirational calls for action. I sent the pieces back to my editor, and asked her to tell me what she thought.
And the outcome was this: I remembered that I’m going to be missed. And that is enough reason for me to make these last few months all the more dynamic and stellar. I’m going to end these last three years of writing for a hero with grace and excellence, and I’m going to remember every day that this is my last chance to wear this unique pair of shoes on this particular road, and that as much as I will be missed, I will also miss what I leave behind after May and June have come and passed.
For now, I’ll be living in the now, where I stand, where I am. And that will be more than enough for now.