|(Trees through the blue glass on my kitchen window sill}|
To blog or not to blog, that is the question several of my facebook friends' posts. Blogging uses up a lot of time, and in the midst of a busy life, not to mention in the midst of late middle age, I feel the urge to blog less than before.
Still, here it is, a clear sunny morning at the end of 2012, and I'm sitting in my easy chair looking out at the mountains. And the trees. The trees I watch every morning, noon, and evening as they settle into darkness, which now that the solstice has passed, will be shorter and shorter until in July I can look out my bedroom window at trees I dream of climbing, winding my soul around, as I drift off to an early bedtime.
I've tried to write poems about this, the mountains and the trees framed by my windows. "The magic of windows and doors," as my novelist friend Vicki Lane calls it. The magic is in the calling. Come here, come here, our windows and doors beckon. Here is darkness falling, here is light rising up, here is your own face in the glass after dark has taken hold. Your own face through which what is left of outside flows through just enough to haunt, to beckon to you. Come inside yourself.
At the year's turn, we do that, whether we want or not. Resolutions, what are they but an inner journey into what we believe we desire. Fewer pounds, more friends, less moralizing and judging each other, including ourselves. "Help me not to be so mean," a Flannery O'Connor character prays. I pray the same, that the meanness that so easily seeps into everyday can be kept at bay.
Another lunch to prepare. Butternut soup,
A glass of wine.
|(Winter dawn through my bedroom window)|