I find myself talking to things more often :) Its usually birds or when I surprisingly see the full moon, as I did last night. But I don't talk to my plants as often as I should!
Ditto for me, Korie! I've always talked to myself, but now I talk to everything. I'm reading Michael Pollan's new book on consciousness right now, and the stuff about plant sentience and consciousness is fascinating.
What can I say.. I love this piece. I love words, how you create two vastly different experiences of the same thing with the change of a word. The difference in my reading of words, of sentences and whole books is when is it alive and when is it dead. Thank you for the prompt and the provocation of the two opposing functions.
Thank you for this post. These last few weeks I've been trying to figure out my approach to writing during a suddenly difficult time -- finding the way to play in the language of it is my new assignment to myself
Weirdly, I think play pairs extra well with difficulty. At least for me, that’s when I need play most and it also seems to be when the strangest surprises emerge from that process. I’m wishing you play and everything else you may need in this difficult season!
Thank you for this wonderful invitation to get out of our habitual ruts and try something different with language, style, perspective - so refreshing. A wonderful poem as well, it is quite interesting to notice how language can add or detract from a pure felt experience. 🙏🏼
I find myself talking to things more often :) Its usually birds or when I surprisingly see the full moon, as I did last night. But I don't talk to my plants as often as I should!
Their poor little ears are just waiting, green and pricked, for a word from you! 🌱
Me too. The older I get, the more I talk to absolutely everything. I believe that plants are much smarter and more conscious than we once thought!
Ditto for me, Korie! I've always talked to myself, but now I talk to everything. I'm reading Michael Pollan's new book on consciousness right now, and the stuff about plant sentience and consciousness is fascinating.
Oh my goodness, those last lines. Wow.
Thanks, honey! I love a wow.
What can I say.. I love this piece. I love words, how you create two vastly different experiences of the same thing with the change of a word. The difference in my reading of words, of sentences and whole books is when is it alive and when is it dead. Thank you for the prompt and the provocation of the two opposing functions.
Thank you so much, Victress! What a lovely, generous comment and reflection.
Thank you for this post. These last few weeks I've been trying to figure out my approach to writing during a suddenly difficult time -- finding the way to play in the language of it is my new assignment to myself
Weirdly, I think play pairs extra well with difficulty. At least for me, that’s when I need play most and it also seems to be when the strangest surprises emerge from that process. I’m wishing you play and everything else you may need in this difficult season!
Thank you for this wonderful invitation to get out of our habitual ruts and try something different with language, style, perspective - so refreshing. A wonderful poem as well, it is quite interesting to notice how language can add or detract from a pure felt experience. 🙏🏼
Thank you so much, Laura! I have to remind myself to get out of my habitual ruts too! They’re just so comfy.
The poem is so lovely. The pink is pinker this year—you bring the art of paying attention to life. And play. I need to play, really, really.
You also DESERVE to play. Really, really. 💛
Beautiful work - happy to find it in my inbox this morning.
Thank you so much, Janie!
Taws and Aggies
Taws, Aggies, and a Cat's Eye
A contest much like curling
Happens in a circle in the dirt with marbles
As Tom Sawyer with a jingly voice
And a tear in the custard corner of his eye
Leads you to an almost failing wooden shed
With the pungent bite in your nose
From years
Of forgotten grease and motor oil
A sheltered garden of dust and darkness with
Spider webs and crickets chirping as the sun goes down
Until a murmuration of Starlings
Startles the realization that the true path is not linear
These buried embers are misleading as a resumé
They hold no thought terminating cliché
Of a conceived destination.
Beneath the walls of weathered boards and their vain attempt
To be a fortress, to corral the wildness of the world
The worms calmy mine for dinner in the existential ambiguity of the dirt
And carve the porous boundary between fiction
And an imagined history
That stubbornly haunts the past
While continuing to hope for a future hidden in the fog
Still hearing your beautiful language and wish I had your gift, rather than my street version.
I'll gladly share it with you if you can somehow share your gift for photography with me!
I'll find a way I love sharing!
I love this, Lisa! Your poem is beautiful and I was just thinking about how to mix up my Monday and do something different!
I love those little synchronicities - how lovely that you were already on this wavelength. Thank you, Maya!