For Saturday, April 30, 2016:
“Jump, and you will find out how to unfurl your wings as you fall.”
Some wings would have been nice a few days ago! The day after I wrote that I was going to take a week off from my blog for a vacation of sorts, I took a tumble when I was outside feeding the birds. It wasn’t the worst fall I’ve ever had – after several minutes, I was able to get up by myself, which was a good thing since no one was around – but it did shake me up (as falls do for most folks, I imagine) and I said a few choice words as I sat there on the ground.
Because I do have a propensity for falls, I’m always VERY careful when I walk. I thought I was last Sunday, too, but still something – a hidden tree root or a rock or who knows what – tripped me up and down I went. Once I hobbled back inside and fed the two dogs, I could nurse my wounds, a wrenched knee and shoulder. For some reason, though, I felt more bruised inside for the rest of the week than I was outside.
I had hoped to read and catch up on other folks’ blogs and comments in my vacation week, especially now that I had to take it easy because of my fall, but Mercury came into its retrograde phase a little early and sent my Internet connections to you-know-where in a handbasket with the wings I could’ve used earlier.
So much for that plan. The extra time, then, went into more edits on a client’s novel manuscript, and I made good progress.
Another good thing came out of this past week: I found a poem I wrote three years ago that I’d forgotten about! That’s always a treat. Since that discovery felt like a gift, and as I ease my way back into The Prompter Room, I thought I might share that little poem to say ‘It’s good to be back.’ I think it fits this past week.
A mountain keeps an echo deep inside itself. That’s how I hold your voice.
Sometimes the words come too fast
to grab by pen, take hold
on paper, thoughts generated by
who knows what – a sight,
a sound, a smell, a memory,
newspaper or book – yet still
the poet picks up pen and paper
in the liturgy of waiting,
has faith that wayward words
from long ago might find their place
in just this poem or that, born of
and in and for the collective
union of emptiness,
knowing it is often true
that the most important part of
a poem is the words that are left out.
And sometimes it is best, in those
fast and furious moments,
to let the cat sleep in your lap, or
sit beside a quiet stream, to listen
to birdsong, the calls of crows,
and to watch the boulders emerge
from beneath the melting snow.
© ERR 3/26/13