late summer

weathered woodland walk 
wary wanderers wander

wabi-sabi way 

Each Silence

When writing - 

Every tap, 

every keystroke,

breaks the silence. 

Wait. 

There - 

can you hear it?

  Declining Sunlight

Autumn,

the slant of noonday sun

sweeps through the room

stretches the long length

of the house to light

up a row of herbs growing

in the kitchen window

on this North-facing sill

here, smell

this lemon thyme

this rosemary. 

In the Garden

Fall-Blooming Asters 
offer sweet feast for my eye  
bright harvest for bees

A Monk In The Woods

 

Yesterday I walked alone in a wooded area next to the sea. A woman approached (staying 6 feet away) where the path divided. 

I asked "Does it matter which way I go?" She answered that the two paths met again further along, and each was as long as the other. I chose one and continued toward thick tall trees, stepping lightly over tree roots, hopping from small path-boulder to small path-boulder, often pausing to look into the sky, to look closely at the bark of a tree, to breathe leaf-fresh air, to listen to wind or water moving nearby. 

 

Then I noticed her, walking some distance behind me, pausing when I paused. And I realized that my slow enjoyment of this space was inconsiderate to this fellow walker who appeared hesitant to pass me along the thin trail. And I wondered why she had not taken the other path. So I stepped lightly off the trail, motioned to her that she could approach to pass, and reached for my pomegranate mask. 

 

But she did not hasten by - she stopped and looked into my eyes and said "I love your colors" which left me speechless as my leaf-filled mind tried to make sense of the words, but then she said "I thought I was following a Tibetan monk in the woods - the colors, the way you move - like a Tibetan monk" After a silence, I said

 

"Maybe you were!" Her gaze softened, then she smiled broadly, and continued along the path ahead of me. 

 

Looking down at fallen poplar leaves and gnarled path-trod roots of the massive trees all around as the softly shadowed air breathed in me, I marveled at finding a monk along this path.

The Saw-Blade Wind Chime Calls Me To Bed

Luckily,

 

my late husband built this wind-chime

out of dull old circular saw blades.

In a light breeze it does not even sway,

and after a storm it needs careful untangling.

But in a steady breeze or gusty wind,

it sets to clanging, bang-bang, clanging.

And on those days it is my job to stop

whatever I'm doing. Slow down. Listen.

If I listen carefully, I can hear him swearing

at whatever project is going wrong. Or

I hear him calling to me from the bedroom:

"It's late. When you coming to bed?"

And then a little later, sounding sad, 

"I'm in bed all alone." and later, sadder,
"There's nobody here but me." Until,

finally, I listen, and stop, and rest. 

Well.
It looks like this will be my easiest place to keep a writer's diary. It won't get lost in the other bag, or used up writing grocery lists and jotted notes about errands to be done.

So the blog takes a slight turn, if all goes well, and enters a phase of more frequent and shorter notes-to-myself yet left out on the coffee table with no lock on the cover.

Today I read a short sample of a "personal response annotation essay" (whatever that is, which should become clear as mr education progresses) which nearly brought me to tears.  It did bring the lun=mp in the throat, hot behind the eyes emotion and this reaffirmed the knowledge that I'm on the right track. At Last.

It was a simple description of what a writer does before writing: the right space, the right position, the right light, the right pen, paper, whatever necessary tools and comforts (for me, a mug of tea going cold while I write) are gathered and put into play to assist the creative ... oh, that creative business, you know.

the flow.

I have called it food for the muse - and really I need to check and see if I plagiarized my muse from Stephen King and need to find a new image... the rumpled clothes, the wrinkled rug, seem Kingsian more than Lyrian. Mine should be ancient, wrinkled and dotty.

At any rate, it is clear this compulsion to creating the right environment is not some small, petty, selfish silliness of my own but is part of the identity I share with writers everywhere. It may be simply persnickety. But it may also be a way of reducing distraction by having everything the same, nothing to interrupt the flow with new attraction by unfamiliarity. Thus even the busy workplace of Le Monde provided the ex-pats a mundane familiarity through their close and daily relationship with the establishment.

For me, my attic writing room is three years old and has yet to be used for writing. So much intervened - so many detours to get here. And still here I am in the guest bedroom, not yet ready to take that twelve-step leap (the attic stairs are a dozen in number) until the paperwork clears and this anchor is fully aweigh.