in beautiful, broken lines

on being here, being now

I am glad for your company in the little blue room this afternoon. I’ve made us a pot of blueberry sage infusion (though there’s no tea leaves, some might call it tea) and am sitting by the window where the light is bright grey and unfiltered by leaves, except through the gumball tree across the street, who just keeps holding on to her paisley skirts of gold and red, plum and green. The sun pokes out a few fingers of light, then slips them back into pale, grey gloves.

Where are you? What do you see out of the window of your little blue room? What fills the mug or cup beside you? Tell me about the light.

November Morning (1901-1902) Dwight William Tryon (American, 1849-1925)

I’ve been trying to shepherd my attention—in a season of stretching, in times of tiredness, attention slips loose and wanders into strange lands. I have been running after thoughts, and trying to keep them here, so I can be here, and be now.

Karen An-hwei Lee shares in her interview chapter of An Axe for the Frozen Sea by Ben Palpant, that “Poetry is a vehicle for attention; it can create the space in us that makes revelation possible.” The accompanying creative activity (from a creative guide I got with my Housemoot ticket) that Caitlin Lore and I chose to do together in response to the chapter was to write a poem about where we are physically—to write about the very domestic and ordinary places we were sitting in. I found it a quieting, comforting, challenging task, an invitation to stillness and observance, not just in my limbs but also in my soul. A lesson in listening. Maybe we all need lifelong lessons in listening?

I chose free verse because of what Lee remarked about that form of poetry: “Because they’re broken, poems can bleed light,” said Lee. This is what I wrote:

the books find a home,
not just on one of the six shelves
of various height, depth, and color
in our bright living room, but on
end tables, windowsills, or hospitable 
corners of floor, tucked between 
cushions on a small, dark couch,
waiting for attention to knock
and for a curious, hungry 
hand to open its little door—
content to hold
until it is held. 

The November meteors (1881-1882) Étienne Léopold Trouvelot (French)

Where are you? What do you see? Write a poem. Don’t try to be profound. Just tell, in beautiful, broken lines, what you see.

And share with me?

I am happy to share that I’ll be trying out a new version of Winter Seeds this year: free, fun, and freeing, I hope. If you were not around last year, Winter Seeds is an effort to create margin for making, to engage in growing our imaginations, and to being spiritually formed through engaging with art—together. I’m not sure if it will be January or February, but I do know I’ll have 3 paths or levels of engagement—5 days a week, 3 days a week, or 1 day a week of engaging with art and doing a little making. Let’s dream together and plant some winter seeds of beauty. Updates soon!