Monday, 30 April 2012

Blossom and Rain Clouds.

                                               'Everything is blooming most recklessly;


                                                      if it were voices instead of colors, 

                                           there would be an unbelievable shrieking

                                                       into the heart of the night' (Rilke)

                               I'd rather be blossom than a rain cloud.

                                But somehow the world needs both.

                               So I'm going to accept the times I'm a rain cloud

                                Equally with the times when I'm blossom.    

                               Because in the end both blossom and rain falls to the ground.

Sunday, 29 April 2012

Why write?

‘For the many experiences and impressions are still heaped up in me in such disorder and chaos that I do not want to touch them. Like a fisherman who comes home late at night, I can guess only vaguely at my catch from the burden of the nets and must wait for the morrow in order to count it and enjoy it like a new discovery.’ Maria Rilke

It takes time for me to write. There is a building up of something, layers of impression and emotion that leak into each other until they merge too much and spill out of the edges of me. Then these layers can be peeled back, one by one, to reveal the truth of it all at the very bottom of me. The writing is hard, for me it does not come easy, it is precision and selection, the craft of language to express in some faint and almost whispered way the deluge within.

The articulate clarity of words giving shape to the formless swirl of emotions and inner dialogue that changes each second.

Writing is trying to make sense of it all, for when we speak something out loud or see it take form, as words on a page, then we bring that thing into existence, from within to the outer world making it real and true beyond just ourselves. Laid bare for others to cast their critical eye over, it is no longer wrapped safely in the inner walls of ourselves where no one can reach it. In us, that thought or idea has only your own interpretation and perception to withstand, once you bring it out from yourself, it stands on an open plain, stark and observable. Is that what art is, communicating and presenting your inner landscape, the contours and colours of you represented in a physical way that makes others see and understand?

So it is getting to that point where I have to write about all this to make sense of it. Put it out into the world, see all this within me take shape Shading, lines and the curve of letters turning it into realness. Then I’m bound to it, writing these thoughts is pledging to the ideas they lead to. To know them and then to act upon them. Writing makes me know them in a new way, a new angle and approach to old feelings that have long been burrowed within me. A growing need to write about being humble, realising life is not a competition but a journey that has no completion and wanting all that I have and I am to be enough.

Monday, 23 April 2012

Gardens are made for tea.

 I've taken to drinking tea on this simple step each morning......

                        It makes the start of my day, the highlight of my day.... 

Birds singing, light beginning to softly glow and a moment, a pause, an intake of breath.
On the cusp of the unfurling day
By the end of the cup, I'm ready for the day to unfold and stretch out with all the potential it holds.