Gatekeeping or Making?

My computer sticker says


I want to be.

What does that mean,

in this machine?

Mo’s story,

in the library,

laid out in my notebook –

scratched down, cobbled together,

the only way I can do it.

Why write

so much?

Why knit

so much?


All the talking heads,

wherever they can be found,

in every




Have the answer.


and send funds.


But in making,

you craft yourself.

You dig your hand into that beautiful yarn basket.

And, you pull up a bright red Wensleydale.

You spin it.

Then, you knit it into your deep green sweater sleeve.


You write about the annoying mosquito,

buzzing around your head.

The one you can’t catch for anything.

The one that gets right next to your ear,

just as you are dozing off, and sends you

waving crazy around the room.


The self-appointed gatekeepers are confident that they know the destination. They are focused on it.

The makers want us to gain solace from accepting that we don’t.

To notice and grapple with what comes now, and now, and now.

I understand something about both opposing mindsets. I think they exist in all of us.

I’m choosing the makers now, and now, and now.

And so, I must make with the very things I want to ignore, the very things Iforestfeet wish were not there: the broken crayons, twigs, the aching knees, the wet newsprint, scraps of brown yarn. All of it.



Checking in

Passing days

Old age

Words in books

Knitted things

Stitches, one by one.

Trees calling,

When I fall into

the old, deep, rutted path.

“Come play!”

They say.


This Morning

By Mary Oliver

This morning the red

birds’ eggs

have hatched and already

the chicks

are chirping for food.

They don’t

know where it’s coming

from, They

just keep shouting

“More! More!”

As to anything else, they


had a single thought.

Their eyes

haven’t yet opened, they

know nothing

about the sky that’s wait-

ing. Or

the thousands, the mil-

lions of trees.

They don’t even know

they have wings.

And just like that, like a


neighborhood event, a

miracle is

taking place.

Papers, Papers


I love paper: scratching down words and drawings, moaning onto the page, writing my bad poetry, recording wise/interesting ideas I come across, imagining possibilities and building stories. Managing the physical space to support  all of this paper is another thing. Going through it takes a big emotional effort. But, I get round to it once or twice a year. This is one of those times.

I have a little quote collection I frequently add to. Maybe you’ll appreciate some of the good ones I found today:

Originality does not consist in saying what noone has ever said before, but in saying exactly what you think yourself. -James Fitz, James Stephen

Everything is gestation and then bringing forth. To let each impression and each germ of a feeling come to completion wholly in itself, in the dark, in the inexpressible, the unconscious, beyond the reach of one’s intelligence, and await with deep humility and patience the birth hour of a new clarity: that alone is living the artist’s life; in understanding as in creating.  -Rainer Maria Rilke

Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.  -Anais Nin

I believe I know the only cure, which is to make one’s center of life inside oneself, not selfishly or excludingly, but with a kind of unassailable serenity – to decorate one’s inner house so richly that one is content there, glad to welcome anyone who wants to come and stay, but happy all the same when one is inevitably alone. -Edith Wharton

Sliver of Space

Just enough space to breathe a bit, to make some things and to think about the important things in life. Not someone else’s list of important, but my own. And, believing what Rumi said:

Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray.

I doubt I can post a photo of this work, but I’m sure I can post a link and you can see something I consider really beautiful in many ways. What do you think?

Poetry as Bread

Struggling with the daily writing practise, poetry class and getting lost in the forest, I came upon this oasis:

We have been taught that only poetry of extremely high quality is poetry at all; that poetry is a big deal, and you have to be a pro to write it, or, in fact, to read it. This is what keeps a few poets and many, many english departments alive.

That’s fine, but I was after something else: the poem not as fancy pastry but as bread; the poem not as masterpiece but as life-work.

-LeGuin, Dancing on the Edge of the World