It is raining.
I am reminded of this paragraph from the book "Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry," by Jane Hirshfield.
"Difficulty itself may be a path toward concentration - expended effort weaves us into a task, and successful engagement, however laborious, becomes also a labor of love. The work of writing brings replenishment even to the writer dealing with painful subjects or working out formal problems, and there are times when suffering's only open path is through an immersion in what is. The eighteenth-century Urdu poet Ghalib described the principle this way: "For the raindrop, joy is in entering the river - / Unbearable pain becomes its own cure."
For the raindrop, joy is in entering the river.
Unbearable pain becomes its own cure.
I am feeling well today, delightfully enthused.
It has been a day of rain. I drove out to see Karen in Muir Beach. There was a litany of falling rocks and flowing leaves. It is quite something to make such a journey. I felt like a little cell, running along the road, wrapped in thought, spreading daffodils on the hills.
I worked today on the introduction for the book. I am pleased with the feedback from Jackie, our editor, and also, grateful that she is concerned for how this is for me to go in so soon to examine. She is a writer, and did not write for a year after her experience with breast cancer, and yet, for me, this constant probing seems to be my need to heal right now. I do back off when I have to and I took some moments today to consider and felt the adjustment and went back in.
I am pleasantly tired this evening, and extremely grateful to be alive. It is hard not to compare this year with last, and to feel amazed that I am here, healthy and well, and able to do Thanksgiving dinner, which I love. Happy cranberry sauce and Turkey dinner to you! Pumpkin pies are soon to come, and the rain is making everything green, so the day will be even more extravagently glorious for all to feast.
Miracles ... rest not so much upon .... healing power coming suddenly near us from afar but upon our perceptions being made finer, so that, for a moment, our eyes can see ... what is there around us always.
- Willa Cather