As with being a musician, maintaining perfect pitch requires other inputs so you can what is and is not. When I struggle to pull the words to the surface of the page in front of me, I either have to read someone else’s, so finish one of the 9 books I am currently ‘reading’, or I go on a hunt for music I haven’t heard yet or haven’t heard in a long time. I generally find those work to draw the inner words to the surface, in extreme circumstances I have to go get lost in the woods for a weekend 😬
I appreciate the likening to music. This reminds me of something Scott Cairns said in interview: that writing (and I guess singing, to your point, Jason) is first about reading, and about understanding what the conversation is before opening our mouths and joining in. I can also appreciate the need to get lost in the woods 🙂 Thanks for sharing your thoughts!
Thanks for this gorgeous reflection and poem. When tension tightens (and I’m wise enough to slow and tend to myself), stepping outside is the most instant way of entering into the “silence and presence” you so invitingly advocate in your poem and essay. Being outside around growing things in the fresh air right-sizes my problems and grounds me in the real and vast world beyond the confines of my mind and four walls. The natural world doesn’t ask anything of me and so draws me into returning to just being. I’m wooed back into wonder and gratitude.
I like that you call out the forcelessness of nature's wooing, which, though it doesn't ask anything of us, certainly invites. Thanks for sharing, Lee!
It is humbling to recognize that ultimately it is not we in and of ourselves who create something worthy and beautiful, but that there is first a light or movement given for us to work with. Watching and waiting for it can be at once painful and wonderful. We must learn to put our minds, bodies and beings in the places that will feed and ready us to receive. And accept what comes or does not.
Ah, the un-done day. You express it so well! For me, nothing renews like a literal grounding in nature--bare feet if possible, or body stretched on the ground. I remember doing this as a child, whether in a patch of moss or a snowbank. If I can find a forest, even better. I think it does have something to do with returning to a child-like posture.
This post feels like a message in a bottle arriving with unbeckoned arrival on the shores of my soul. Thank you. Fits nice and snug with my current focus on "recalibrate" which I contemplated today.
Thanks for the kind words, Jonathan! It was great to read your reflection on recalibration and find some resonance with the thoughts shared here. As you say there, it's a desperately needed thing when "we find ourselves estranged, distracted, or diluted by lesser 'loves.'"
As with being a musician, maintaining perfect pitch requires other inputs so you can what is and is not. When I struggle to pull the words to the surface of the page in front of me, I either have to read someone else’s, so finish one of the 9 books I am currently ‘reading’, or I go on a hunt for music I haven’t heard yet or haven’t heard in a long time. I generally find those work to draw the inner words to the surface, in extreme circumstances I have to go get lost in the woods for a weekend 😬
I appreciate the likening to music. This reminds me of something Scott Cairns said in interview: that writing (and I guess singing, to your point, Jason) is first about reading, and about understanding what the conversation is before opening our mouths and joining in. I can also appreciate the need to get lost in the woods 🙂 Thanks for sharing your thoughts!
Thanks for this gorgeous reflection and poem. When tension tightens (and I’m wise enough to slow and tend to myself), stepping outside is the most instant way of entering into the “silence and presence” you so invitingly advocate in your poem and essay. Being outside around growing things in the fresh air right-sizes my problems and grounds me in the real and vast world beyond the confines of my mind and four walls. The natural world doesn’t ask anything of me and so draws me into returning to just being. I’m wooed back into wonder and gratitude.
I like that you call out the forcelessness of nature's wooing, which, though it doesn't ask anything of us, certainly invites. Thanks for sharing, Lee!
Thank you for these honest words!
It is humbling to recognize that ultimately it is not we in and of ourselves who create something worthy and beautiful, but that there is first a light or movement given for us to work with. Watching and waiting for it can be at once painful and wonderful. We must learn to put our minds, bodies and beings in the places that will feed and ready us to receive. And accept what comes or does not.
Well said!
Ah, the un-done day. You express it so well! For me, nothing renews like a literal grounding in nature--bare feet if possible, or body stretched on the ground. I remember doing this as a child, whether in a patch of moss or a snowbank. If I can find a forest, even better. I think it does have something to do with returning to a child-like posture.
This is helpful. Thanks for sharing!
It’s hard for me to ‘Be’. Seems like I’m always on ‘Do’. This poem is an encouragement!
Thanks for reading, Samuel! I'm right there with you. Glad to hear this was an encouragement.
This post feels like a message in a bottle arriving with unbeckoned arrival on the shores of my soul. Thank you. Fits nice and snug with my current focus on "recalibrate" which I contemplated today.
Thanks for the kind words, Jonathan! It was great to read your reflection on recalibration and find some resonance with the thoughts shared here. As you say there, it's a desperately needed thing when "we find ourselves estranged, distracted, or diluted by lesser 'loves.'"
This was great and spot on. Thank you for sharing. Sometimes the most important thing is not producing or creating, but noticing.
I agree! Love this Tyler....good reminder to just be and let ideas flow when I'm still and resting. Even Jesus took naps! 🤗
It’s an old framed print Tyler.
Like Sunday School, 1967, here
in the hot San Joaquin Valley. And
older brothers were sloshing through
mud and hot rain in Vietnam.
It hangs there above the french doors
going out to my grape arbor.
Technicolor Jesus walking
in a grain field with a friend.
The Jesus of:
lilies, grass, corn and a hen
in Jerusalem gathering her chicks.
The Jesus of sweet Mrs Points
with wire rimmed glasses, a worn out Bible
and kind blue eyes. The Jesus she introduced
me to, without any brimstone, around a
small table with similar prints on the wall.
When words won’t come but tears do;
when Jesus seems distant. I simply
look out to the 🍇 grapes and above the french doors to Jesus.
He is near me then Tyler. I am home
and old Mrs Points whispers from 1967, in her
dust bowl accent, ‘He will never leave you
Jeffrey. Imagine that.’ And that is all that
matters.