#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
Milkweed Seed on the Rock
“. . .But there is something that I do love about the Buddhist notion of: it's not the destination, it's the path getting there. And something that a lot of people told me and that I never believed until I experienced it for myself was that no external affirmation, no external praise and no external sort of achievement has ever begun to match-- let alone exceed--the joy I have found when I'm writing and when I'm deep in a sentence. When I'm just really, really trying to get at what it is I want to write down. . .”
~ Novelist R.O. Kwon from American Masters podcast transcript, interviewed by Josh Hamilton
First, the ducks lifting off, flight over the Charles, the November blank sky. And the chill, ice on the puddles. We follow the tracks of deer through the dry weeds to the riverbank and breathe in the Sunday morning quiet and fresh. It is good to be alive, to be awake, to be aware, to feel at peace with the changing of the season and the hope of a new day. We take a long ramble, without gloves, tucking hands into shirt into fists of trying to unfreeze them. We spot, in the meadow, a bee hive in the hay, sprinkled with bittersweet. And all the milkweed coming apart. Yes, I feel my spirit settling into November, letting go of resistance. In the afternoon, I go to Somerville to a friend’s poetry reading, and Frank offers to come. I am so happy to hear my friend read from her lovely book, to feel a part of this poetry community, to see so many poetry friends in the hall, listening, and sharing their own poems at the open mic. It’s the best November Sunday afternoon thing to do: to care about the poems we all need to write and read to each other. Frank and I drive home after dark. We are grateful for the time to continue our conversation: what matters most as we think about this phase of our lives. While we are on this drive, to and from the city, we receive three phone calls, one from each child. One is moody and stressed seeking comforting words for the Sunday blues; one is happy and cheerful wanting a simple hello; one is hungry, wanting, literally, to be fed. It is lovely to be able to give each one what is asked.
