It’s a bleating rain – it whines as it falls through the air and smashes against the windows.
It’s nice to have an office with windows usually.
My desk is layered with papers and books turned to pages I will read.
A manual that will explain a quirk in a piece of software I’m using lies open.
The wind whips everything sideways.
I’m glad I’m not outdoors. I don’t wish to be blown sideways.
The beagle doesn’t realize I’m home.
He lies curled in his bed in the kitchen downstairs, sleeping and waiting, waiting for any one of us to show up and discover him and feed him.
He trusts that will happen, rightfully so.
All kinds of space, an entire day, yawn open. The opportunity to spin some writing, dig down past the spin and get to some real stuff, use pen and paper, all are possible.
But there is no room to write at the desk and no urge to clean everything off, something that could be done in one fell swoop, a grand gesture, something cinematic that sends papers flying, stacks of letters and photos pshooshed to the floor, bits of ephemera and things saved for some reason – all, all whisked to the carpet below. I clean best that way. Take everything out, put back only what’s necessary and do so in an organized manner.
But not now.
I wander to my bookshelf. Who calls? what book calls to be opened and read while the storm lashes?
I choose Mary Oliver. Last week, a fellow blooger (was it ds?) posted one of Oliver’s poems. It was the perfect post.
Poetry is such a good place to go. It fires and inspires the pen, the memory, the very lushness of every single thing and the wonderful ones do it without sentimentality. There’s the rub.
Nope, I’m not a poet but I thank God for them, for the pictures they take and make. For the simplicty of things, all translated, making us remember.
(The book was a gift. The shell is from the beach at Sanibel.)
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