I would like to write. Not like I would like to make meals when people are hungry, or get the laundry done when the shorts with the searched-for belt are on the bottom of the basket. More like I would like to remove my chipping nail polish but can’t remember where I put the remover I just bought and have zero interest in looking for it. And definitely I would like to be published without the hassle of actually publishing.
My long ago, faraway, found-again-on-Facebook friend Anne Overstreet just published a book of poetry. It is lovely. The title delicate machinery suspended from a poem about her father’s heart surgery. They are personal poems, the best kind. They are words containing layers without narrative or extended explanation. Briefly set scenes at the beginning of each chapter give a window through which to hold common ground and know bits of the history which the words describe. I’ve read it and will again. You should too! Poetry is a hard fought battle in America. We value sound bites, fast explanations and Google maps to get where we’re going rather than descriptions of the lovely views along the journey. Read here for a recent article on our national poet. Especially if you didn’t know we have one!
The first few words of this blog were in my mind as I logged on today. Then a crash of glass on the garage floor interrupted what I had hoped would be a moment’s reflection. A typical circumstance. I took a picture of Steve, the painter, on my camera to remind me to blog about the therapy of claiming our spaces and the excitement of building together. It fit well with a view of said Steve out the kitchen window mowing the grass, but then the mower broke and I had to get a funnel and didn’t get back to the thought, until now. And now, my skateboarding 8 year old isn’t in the driveway. So I’m off…
Blessings among the many things that occupy your time!