365 days 365 poems, art, aspirations, Creativity, daily poetry, David Foster Wallace, discipline, Family, lessons, love, perspective, poems, Poetry, Teaching, Teaching Adolescents, Teaching teens, Teaching Writing, Writing
“If your fidelity to perfectionism is too high, you never do anything.”
Yep, that is good advice, especially to someone who is afraid of producing shitty first drafts everyday. Especially when that person only has a finite number of minutes to produce anything and does not, as yet, have anything to poem. I guess that sounds like an excuse. Really, though, there have been moments worthy of reflection today, most especially the unexpected death of a cousin, but I can’t seem to make any poetic sense of that. I have been thinking about it, though, and the only lines that have come to me have to do with gratitude. I’m grateful I knew this family member. I’m grateful in the extravagant way of the living. I’m grateful his organs are now living in other people.
It leads me to this:
I wish to be as grateful as the birds for the worms. To feel as underground as anything. I want to be known only by the lamplight, and to note the doorsteps to the layered silences, the most important moment in any story.
This moss is a lectern, and the stream stones are perfect talismans. The brittle edges meet in gurgle, and wait for the cinders of unthinkable grief. What are the centuries of repayment? What do we do for the water, to thank it for its carrying?
The marvelous absence will be the achievement of hours, in this little wandering of storytelling. This year there is no return to forgotten spring, no astonishing messages, no blurred skies, no fertile waters that garble in folksong.
What is left is epiphany, the breath before the notes, and the ripple before witness. In those long seconds, I want to know that extravagant thanks, like the turning of the blind to the sunlight.
I don’t know. Happy Saturday, poem friends.