I’m hoping to return to ‘The Six Mute Swans’ in the new year; for now it’s stalled to finish up work on ‘West of Moonlight’ . But I’ve just been given a set of pastel pencils: the colors are aweingly beautiful. So I plan to redo these and go at the ‘Swans’ story in chalk pastels.
The other night I grabbed a favorite book climbing into bed. Huddling in the dark with only light enough for written words, they spoke straight into me. Both ends of time dissolved around my flashlight, and there was only a voice.
Something I felt, so directly addressed by a largely forgotten poet, is that truth and love are measureless around this little huddling-with-a-flashlight self. If my efforts are not to leave an impress of self, but of that measureless thing — they will be flawed; but the love and the truth in them will keep. Love can lie dormant on a shelf somewhere, or in a folder, until it finds someone it seeks.
by Ruth PitterAbsolute good sits throned in the middle of the mind.
There must be — I know there is — a heaven to find:
Our final bliss, perfectly passionate, perfectly kind:
It is our first love, long since left behind.
We need no more than one look to know our own.
Turn a page. In place of the print, an image is shown:
Then broken and healed, created and overthrown,
We fall at the feet of the New we have always known.