As mentioned in recent posts, I’m going in for major surgery tomorrow. If it feels comfortable to you, please offer a prayer, wish, or thought to support me and my surgical team. Anyone who has read my writing of late knows I believe in mysterious currents flowing through creation. It’s possible that prayers/wishes/thoughts will favor a smooth and successful procedure. And they can’t hurt! Thank you, in advance, for this gesture.
As also mentioned, I’m using this turning point in my life to bring the WillSpirit project to an end. There is a chance I’ll polish and then re-post some of my better pieces, but whatever new writing I do will be in some different context: maybe offline working on a manuscript, or maybe on a new site with a specific focus. Time will tell.
So anyone interested can check back to find out how things turned out following my procedure, after a few weeks of healing I’ll change the wording in this entry to provide a brief update. And if I launch a new site, I’ll post a brief announcement.
Let’s close down this project with a poem I wrote a few months ago, one that manages to summarize insights that have come to me in the process of writing this blog. My aunt, who has always been one of my most important sages, liked it enough to show it to her minister. To me, that suggests the piece manages to say something worthwhile.
To all who have read my writing and/or communicated with me, I offer my love and gratitude. Please feel free to reach out via email, anytime.
And now, one last image and then WillSpirit’s final words:
We are not
born and do not die
No, we begin as innocents
hanging loosely over the land
like garments gripping a clothesline,
dripping with ignorance, sometimes flapping
upward toward a waxing yet faded moon like tethered
wings but mostly freezing, bit by bit, in the desert dawn
until late morning, or just after, when we awake
rigid with terror in the midst of life.
If we are lucky,
the elements melt our frosted casings.
The sun and sky whisper to us until we understand
how to burn with age and embrace our whipping and shredding
by time and its dispassionate winds.
By afternoon, nothing is left
but our feathers. Our downy fragments
circling, we become aimless, almost thoughtless,
dancing like sparks sputtering out of God’s galactic campfire,
or the stout candle of love, or whatever we imagine ignites us. Or maybe,
tired of rising, we fall, dropping through opaque clouds as brisk and fluid as spring
rain that moistens and reshapes a sterile, hardened landscape
until it lies blanketed under thick, wet loam.
We have come to this.
We could have predicted some of this,
but who, when young, can foretell such odysseys
of up and down, or so many visits to heaven and hell, or all of it
woven together into a single nest? Yes, yes, we all wish we had learned
sooner, but in the beginning we can’t see our true forms. Only those strings
binding and choking us seem obvious, and then our decay, our slow disappearing.
But one day we remember everything someone told us to forget,
and our doubts drop away like duff from a redwood
more ancient and enduring than anything
we have known.
long after the luminous sunset,
perched on some craggy ridge top, we begin
to see. We were not born and will not die,
not like this.
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