Heart Happy (cathy_edgett) wrote,
Heart Happy
cathy_edgett

Who knows why -

It began this morning with watering, fertilizing and trimming my indoor plants.  I beckoned the inspirational place that allows communion with this life force seemingly different from my own.   I felt like I was in Bali placing altars to the gods all over my home, and then, like that, I became aware of clutter.  I noticed that to get to the popcorn popper,  I had to sort through an array of hats and then a bowl fell down out of the closet and then I noticed purses, and then ....

All right, Good Will, I said, and began piling up hats and items I no longer need.  In the garage there are shoes now ready to go, and then, I came to this room, my desk, a desk that only recently was completely cleaned off with just the essentials lying just right,  placed just so, feng shui honored all the way, a little bit of wabi sabi - the tree shaken over the clean walk, and, then, one item after another entered, and now, I am sorting through piles and piles of stuff.   How many books need to be within instant reach of my hand?  I count twelve, all of which seem indispensible and will stay, but I work in a room surrounded by books.  Could any of the twelve be an arm lengths away?  Probably not. 

What I notice in this mood is poetry does not appeal.  I read a poem by a poet I love and nothing happens, just words.  Perhaps I had never before realized so clearly how I have to be "here" to receive the poem, and it't not that I'm not here, but I'm also "out there," in judgment and discernment.  I'm clearing and cleaning out.  Poetry is an exchange, a two-way, possibly an infinite-way street.   For words to cohere there must be an honoring of the space in which they are arranged, the marks on the page.  Right now, in cleaning mode,  I am seeing books as a whole, rather than with the awareness of the wisdom they may contain. 

Billy Collins considers the word "acccessible" as used to describe his poems as possibly disparaging.  He prefers the word hospitable.

Today, is my day to make my desk hospitable while keeping my brain/mind/body open enough to receive poems, poetry, intuition.

I hear a chainsaw in a neighboring yard.  It seems another tree is to go.   Clearing in and out.    There must be something in the stars.  I hear each star spreading out,  streaming, "I need more space," as each book, paper, and note, says, "See me now, absorb."   In this moment I'm taking in whole, so that I can find a place to read each book and give it the space in which it was conceived, and the honoring that all the people who went into its production deserve.
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