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?
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
Aurora was an artist. Her landscapes were mythical dreams of green and blue.
Mo felt a draft coming from behind the library shelves. There was a solid wall behind those shelves. A draft wasn’t possible.
This is my book, such as it is. I tell people I am writing one. Then, I give some kind of disclaimer. I’m doing my best to put it out there in whatever state, as itself. If I’m honest there’s a lot of editing that goes into it before anyone else sees it. Therein lies the next life goal.
The pattern seems universal: ..study and hard work…prepared mind…being stuck…sudden shift…letting go of control..of self. A Lightman