#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
. . . She who in her last days loved too well to lose
a single weed to namelessness, in creosote,
blue grama, goatsbeard that is not thriving, is,
amid the cattails’ brittle whisper whispers
O Law’, Honey, ain’t this a praiseful thing. . .Excerpt from “The Resevoir,” by Christian Wiman
The mushrooms are sprouting up under the trees and in the shaded grass, like this chalice one bursting up under the pines. We walked for a good long walk into the woods and through the wetlands where the cattails thrive in the soupy, swampish wetlands that spill over the banks of the Charles. I feel the changing of the light. Today, I was allowed to be tired, physically. Still, I stayed busy. Just busy with tired. I prepped for my Wednesday morning writers which resumes tomorrow. Choosing a poem and writing a prompt and warming up to being present and attentive and conscious and aware of the needs of this group going into its fifth year. Can it be? Yes, we’ve completed four years of these weekly Wednesdays. These chalice mushrooms make me feel as if I’m in church outdoors in the sunshine. And I am; it’s a walking religion. As Thoreau described:
“I, who cannot stay in my chamber for a single day without acquiring some rust, and when sometimes I have stolen forth for a walk at the eleventh hour of four o’clock in the afternoon, too late to redeem the day, when the shades of night were already beginning to be mingled with the daylight, have felt as if I had committed some sin to be atoned for.”
Mushroom like a chalice