This is the hardest piece of the work for me. I perch for a moment, clasp claws on a thought, but my eye never stops roving. On a very good day, I hold on for dear life, follow it, twist and twine it into another thought, weave and make. Often I’m too nervous. I flutter away, tempted by another spot, another place. There is a restlessness always rustling the feathers.
So many of these days, the problem is believing the lie that other work makes more than these words, that a long list of tasks have priority before this page, this pen. No sooner do I ease into my seat than a basket of laundry or the supper to be cooked taps me on the shoulder. Just. One. More. Thing.
The flurry of busyness will always seem to add up to more than a poem. It is not so. Every time I make space to be still, a deep peace flows into and through me. And sometimes I come away with a bowl of words, chosen and strung one by one, with the odd-shaped luster of freshwater pearls.
Thankfully over time, even in my homey tasks I have found ways to contemplate, to burrow within quietly as the steam rises from the iron, the sink, the soup pot. But there comes a time to lay everything down, to know the humility of stillness, of one thing at a time.
Seeking midwinter inspiration with other good folks
writing along in February at Write ALM