We talked about poetry, about the economy of words, about how words rise as currency not for sale but for spirit. And it all spoke to me about the reality that our stories are poured into novels, essays, poems, songs, paintings, photos--to say something that cannot be said--to offer a fragment of the self which calls out, "Yes, I was here...I did exist...this is what it looked like to me." So, here--it looked like this:
I am still feeling quiet--still working hard to polish my words. Spring has come and I am still waiting for the magnolia to bloom in the front yard...for the leaves to break open on the trees...for the rains to come. I am writing and nursing my eldest girl back to health after a wicked bout of breathless illness...trying to understand what it feels like to hold my daughter in the steam of a bathtub to get her lungs to open up again, breathing in deeply myself because I can--how fragile and strong mothering makes me. My baby looked decades older after my short time away from her...my son wanted to know "if God created the Universe and everything in it then who created God"...and the season makes me wake up and get outside, my arms wreathed with scratches from battling the untamed garden, my hair smelling green when the day ends. I am writing and reading the pages of indecipherable notes from the writer's conference I attended...tracking down books by some of the authors there who drew me up and out of myself. I am writing and writing and writing...returning to my center.
by Renee Gregorio
...Listen to the wood and how it sings,
the moment of its splitting.
I've been listening so long
to the sound of splitting;
now I want to know
the sound wood makes when it's whole.