Monday, February 24, 2014

and suddenly you know

Let's begin this Monday morning with a poem by Rilke:

And you wait. You wait for the one thing
that will change your life,
make it more than it is—
something wonderful, exceptional,
stones awakening, depths opening to you.

In the dusky bookstalls
old books glimmer gold and brown.
You think of lands you journeyed through,
of paintings and a dress once worn
by a woman you never found again.

And suddenly you know: that was enough.
You rise and there appears before you
in all its longings and hesitations
the shape of what you lived.

“True life is lived when tiny changes occur.”

- Leo Tolstoy

In the middle of the usual busy-ness of a weekend - working at the library, sorting the house for the week ahead, cooking, cleaning, working on my manuscript, drinking endless tea to soothe my (almost gone) cold - there was this light. And I threw my usual books on the usual table near the back kitchen window, grabbed some of the dried flowers that we always somehow seem to have lying around.....and watched the light, experienced the light, lived it, changing, as it moved in and through and over my little arrangement.

One of those purely happy moments, part of the shape of what I live.

When I'd finished with the books, I borrowed Chloe's lucky cat, feeling very lucky myself.

And one last one, with a teacup. One of my junk store finds.

So this is how it is. How it's possible to make light, the searching for light, the waiting for it, and its arrival, the centre of a life. Or at least part of the shape of it.


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