Friday, 17 October 2014

Await what the stars will bring.

Words soar into my time like shooting stars. Daily heat. Black. Light. Night is here, I am tucked into my bed. As my feet mark time on the staircase turn, I know I have to write. There is the yearn. A longing. Just a few words, something before sleep, like the skinning of an onion, oil heating in a pan. A promise. A hope; a vision of a dish. A story. A text. A beginning. A burn. This is desire, from the French, de sidere, to "await what the stars will bring".

Monday, 1 September 2014

The Whispering Fig

Summer dwindles, seeps into autumn. Time is like a snake, it sheds sandy bathing suits for the scent of burning wood, a skin made from cold, damp earth. Before we left the forest this summer, I gathered figs, plucked from trees, and gently cradled the soft, warm flesh in my palm. I thought, a fig is a promise, a delicate kiss, a secret purple smile. So easily damaged, so soft, so welcoming; a fig seems to beat with a human heart. Split me in two, the fig whispered; just take a bite.

Tuesday, 6 May 2014

the baby came....

The baby came. A bud of wisdom. A flower of hope. We drift together in a muddle of time, running on a thread of feeds and sleeps. I try to eat, drink and write with one hand. "She is so tiny" everyone says. "You forget how small babies are". We marvel at her delicate, miniature limbs. Tender. Ferocious. Cradled in my arms. She has changed lives. In a blink of months she will be transformed. For now each day, hour requires an Everest force; meeting the mountain, smelling the flower, tasting the breath of fresh life.

Monday, 10 March 2014

Rilke's Double Kingdom: Coming back, going forward, stepping around

Spring is here this week, soft as the smell of warm baked cake. Gentle temperatures and tulips decorate our days. I've fallen from this blog, had my head in hospices, death, funerals and grief; dark, intimate spaces. I am also pregnant. So, I've been traveling in two directions, living in a place akin to Rilke's Double Kingdom. Orpheus comes and goes perpetually, as the poets come and go, roses blooming, falling and dying, only to bloom again. In the double kingdom voices are mild and eternal, mourning  becomes music. So, maybe, I'll be saying goodbye to this space. Maybe, I'll step around here a little while longer. There are so many goodbyes and new beginnings...