Although it is quite
late and if I don’t get to sleep soon, tomorrow will be a rough one, I need to
get back on the “writing horse” and giddyup.
The two months since I last posted have really flown by. The memorial for Stuart took up quite a bit of my focus and energy. The event was beautiful and all the attendees seemed moved and appreciative. After recovering from that labor of love, I got busy with emptying out my Berkeley storage space. Amazingly, I did manage, with the Herculean help of FMB, KDC, MPC, and transportation assists from MDS and AG.
Back in Southern California now, dealing with the awful hated heat, the flotsam and jetsam I saved from my Berkeley storage, the garden that is now a jungle, and a changed situation with my mother, I am rather stunned and gasping. All of this warrants more reflection and description, yet I find myself dumbfounded and foundering.
So, herewith, I begin to get in touch with myself and you all.
PRISMS
What is beheld through glass seems glass.
The quality of what I am
Encases what I am not,
Smoothes the strange world.
I perceive it slowly,
In my time,
In my material,
As my pride,
As my possession:
The vision is love.
When life crashes like a cracked pane
Still shall I love
Even the strange dead as the living once.
Death also sees, though distantly,
And I must trust then as now
A prism—of another kind,
Through which one may not put one's hand to touch.
— Laura Riding Jackson
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