Tag: Writing

Pilgrimage

All day long, I see things a painter would paint. What is there to complain about? Even my own pain has been endured by thousands before me, and depicted by master sculptors. Pilgrimage, penance, failure, learning to hold one’s self tenderly, in friendship –…

A Passage On Writing From Natalie Goldberg

Excerpt from “Thunder and Lightning” by Natalie Goldberg: “I never escaped being a monk!  The morning gruel, the frost on the bell, bare feet on frigid floors, all have been mine.  Except that my meditation position has been a bent body hovering over a notebook…

Over the River and Through the Woods, To Grandmother’s House I Went

I grew up with a dairy allergy, a hardcore vegetarian/raw food advocate mom who juiced her own wheatgrass and fermented her own probiotic drinks, and no TV.  Books, cats, the outdoors, an occasional friend who didn’t think I was too weird, and an overactive…

I Want

I want to ponder the radius of the earth as if it was yet to be discovered.  I want to burst through doorways with a clear voice singing, intoxicated with life.  I want fistfuls of cloud spilling out of my pockets. A poet is…

Towards The Fire

When things unravel with such fury, we conclude that something should be held responsible. We look for a place to lay our blame, though the source of our pain often has the power to be a catalyst for growth, a facilitator of movement in…

Reception

Friends, I toss myself aside for you.  I become available for you.  I eat, drink, mumble, run hands through hair for you, scramble down the gulch for you, carry wood, fold socks, scrub pots, ever-fearless, requiring nothing. These are not the days of time’s…

On Working With The Creative Powers

This is a wonderful excerpt from the book Blue Pastures by Mary Oliver.  It is not about an artist’s discipline, that is an entirely different subject.  Rather, it’s about making oneself available at all times to one’s ideas and creative powers. “I am absent-minded,…

Birth of a Poem

Eavesdropping on your observations with transcendental accuracy, the gleam of something half-buried catches your eye. You investigate it as if it were a valuable relic, bring more of it into the light where you can see it, turn it over with a delicate hand….

Constance

I wrote this poem to honor Constance Person, my English Lit teacher in my senior year of high school.  It was a large class and she always had the desks arranged in the shape of a square with an opening near the chalkboard.  But she spent…

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