I realize I haven't been posting much, in fact for 9 days. I've been pondering what can happen in such a short time. In 9 days a new pope can be elected. Two small children can wander away from a home in Georgia, never to return. A chance to help start a business can fall into one's lap. A new possible love can begin to take root. I suppose I have been just swamped with too much to handle at once, and needed time to absorb it all in. I have been faithfully keeping up with Kelly's (dilettante) and Clint's(bluefairlane) blogs with a mix of pride of knowing them and jealousy of their prolific writing skills. Tomorrow John would have been 56 years old. I had my first encounter with a million dollar race horse, only for it to try to bite my left breast off lol.
In short, I feel like a piece of silly putty that can be enlarged by bulling in all directions. The putty can never be uniformly enlarged, and is always misshapen. But stretch it does in new directions.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Water under the bridge-9 days
Posted by Tabitha at 6:39 PM
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3 comments:
Glad to hear you are ok, kid. I was just going to email you, but I thought I'd check here first. I'll call back the search party and the blood-hounds. I hope you are happy, sweets.
I was reading a book of pagan poetry, and came across this:
HEARTSTONE By Patricia Wellington-Jones
Years after her husband died
she placed crushed mugwort in her left nostril,
stepped into the labyrinth, trod
the gravel ath between lines of stone
A few twists inm acorn rolling
between thumb and warm palm, she was surprised
to find her late love beside her deliberate steps.
the sun beat on her hated head, the path
wound and wound and wound.
After several turns she stopped resisting.
let him fill her body with tears
she'd long thought shed. Stunned
at an outer ring, her feet refused to move.
Amid rough lava and mica-chipped stone,
one not-too-large rive cobble: smooth
and gray, inviting her fingers, with a heart
sunken in the matrix of white. She felt her love
take her hand, lead her to the center. There,
in a rock hollow, she added the acorn to lichen
cedar tip, faded flowers.
Expecting to feel calmed, she started
tge outward trek, found tears spilling over
at tge heartstone. With a sense of sacriledge,
she fished a tissue from her jeans and,
in one sharp blast, blew away the tears--
and mugwort. A final pat of stone,
a few steps further on the gravel, her hair leifte
in the refreshing breeze. She felt her husband's
smile rise over the oaks. Pace still deliberate,
heart and feet light, she stepped quickly from the guidance of the labyrinth
to the tangle of everyday.
I was reading a book of pagan poetry, and came across this poem, it reminded me of you:
HEARTSTONE By Patricia Wellington-Jones
Years after her husband died
she placed crushed mugwort in her left nostril,
stepped into the labyrinth, trod
the gravel path between lines of stone
A few twists in, acorn rolling
between thumb and warm palm, she was surprised
to find her late love beside her deliberate steps.
The sun beat on her hatted head, the path
wound and wound and wound.
After several turns she stopped resisting,
let him fill her body with tears
she'd long thought shed. Stunned
at an outer ring, her feet refused to move.
Amid rough lava and mica-chipped stone,
one not-too-large river cobble: smooth
and gray, inviting her fingers, with a heart
sunken in the matrix of white. She felt her love
take her hand, lead her to the center. There,
in a rock hollow, she added the acorn to lichen
cedar tip, faded flowers.
Expecting to feel calmed, she started
the outward trek, found tears spilling over
at the heartstone. With a sense of sacriledge,
she fished a tissue from her jeans and,
in one sharp blast, blew away the tears--
and mugwort. A final pat of the stone,
a few steps further on the gravel, her hair leifte
in the freshening breeze. She felt her husband's
smile rise over the oaks. Pace still deliberate,
heart and feet light, she stepped quickly from the guidance of the labyrinth
to the tangle of everyday.
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