Tuesday, February 14, 2012

FOR SOME TIME I THOUGHT

No, no, no. I am not falling off the map here. I am just a bit tired of what feels like ritual or forced reporting and holding out for something of more depth. Then again, that takes more time and a different sort of attention, so that I end up not writing anything. And clearly, this is not a good idea.

Pam is having surgery today. The last reports I received, and again, these are not so clear, is that she has improved and that she will likely NOT lose her hand, and possibly even not her finger. Those closer correspondents promised to keep me informed, so I will just stay as positive as I can.


Meanwhile, I posted/sent a poem over the weekend that has such resonance in my life, is so on point, I can scarcely believe it exists. Most of you probably read it, but for the record, here it is again:


THE NEW SONG

For some time I thought there was time
and that there would always be time
for what I had a mind to do
and what I could imagine
going back to and finding it
as I had found it the first time
but by this time I do not know
what I thought when I thought back then

there is no time yet it grows less
there is the sound of the rain at night
arriving unknown in the leaves
once without before or after
then I hear the thrush waking
at daybreak singing the new song

— W. S. Merwin, The New Yorker, December 12, 2011




The next day or the day after that ...

All the Pam news is not yet in, but it seems as though her hand is intact, and her kidney function is improving. She lost part of her middle finger, but not clear to the first or second knuckle.

So, back to the Merwin poem, the idea that I will not be able to accomplish everything I have wanted to, nor everything I have collected or "hoarded", depending on your viewpoint, with an eye to tomorrow. Tomorrow, or at least soon, or at least sometime, I will have time (and money and energy) to knit, sew, cook, read, upcycle, travel, et cetera et cetera.

And now I think there isn't enough time. And that what I have collected slows me down, clutters me, maybe even hinders me from some of what I think I want or want to do or want to be.

And at the first, that just stops me in regret, and where there is regret there can also be recriminations of the personal kind. Yesterday, I just wanted to take everything and throw it out the window. Which, upon reflection, sort of makes it other people's problem.

This might be my favorite poem ever. I might even memorize it.



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