As per last year, I’ll be writing a poem a day in April, doing NaPoWriMo. Then I hope to keep writing poetry for the rest of my life.
When I’ve gathered myself together and worked up the courage, greased the wheels of long-ago J-School lessons and made peace with the memories of several lifetimes, I shall start to write again, here:
Petal because I’m hypersensitive and breakable; and I think I have mettle, because I’ve fought my worst fears to have my adventures and experiences. I doubt that that will change until I well and truly give up and, well, die. Essentially.
I never want to be static. I always want to be willing and happy to learn. I want to be solid and stoic and calm, but I also know that there are deep parts of my personality that don’t want to be. They want to be curious, spontaneous and inquisitive, childlike and a constant beginner; to dance in the lights as much as hover in the wings.
But there’s one thing the whole choir of voices in my head agree on, and it’s this: we want to write. So we shall. Eventually.
There is something beautiful about believing in the potential of things without needing proof of it; something childlike and loyal and vulnerable. I am not sure I’m capable of it, but I’m glad it exists. It ignites passion and creativity because of all that is possible if you believe it is.
I was never made to be cynical– I don’t think it was ever in my nature– but I have never been the kind who can believe without questioning, either. It’s something about being Buddhist, which tells you to question.
Nonetheless, I’m grateful for faith– it emerges in confidence, knowing we can do something having never done it before; in marriage, vowing to love someone for the rest of your life, not really knowing if you will; in leaps of faith and in trust and in love.
Freedom! The wind in my hair and streets and winding lanes to explore
All the paths cars cannot tread and pedestrians cannot reach!
Skim the dappled sun-streaked pavements under budding trees, soar
Beside seagulls and bare sandy feet, beneath a blue-sky beach;
Wind in lazy sync with swift-flowing sparkling rivers, before
The heavy cool blanket of night sets in, and then whizz along
Under the silent twinkling stars, yellow-lamplit pavements;
Stand, feel the rush of air, and weave through the busy throng.
Today, the sad thing is all over the papers, the call that the MH plane crashed in the ocean off Perth (it seems to have got really far off course). It’s awful, all those poor relatives, with no real closure, no bodies to bury. No goodbyes.
I do want to just quickly say, though, that 777s are wonderful planes. Some of the nicest rides in sky. I know they pollute carbon dioxide, but I can’t help but be grateful for planes. So many new adventures now exist because planes exist. No, they don’t travel at the speed of the soul at all, and I hate jet lag, and they spit me out desiccated, tired, cranky, achey and antsy, and I can’t do long flights with any sort of grace, but look at how much it has changed our lives, outlook, sense of space and time. And if that’s not a collective human adventure in itself, I don’t know what is.
I owe a post for yesterday but this one was easy. If you have ever spent time hauling luggage through an old-world underground, most notably in some otherwise wonderful European cities, you’d probably agree with me that the sight of an elevator or escalator is often accompanied by mental heavenly choirs and trumpets and seem to glow against a backdrop of clouds! I am grateful for lifts and escalators.
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