And when I meet myself, I will shake my hand with curiosity and awe

I wonder sometimes whether I could ever write fiction. My sense is perhaps not--I have very little sense of plot. I don't think in terms of plot; I am not drawn to notice potential plots. But little scenes. Vignettes and still-lifes. I could collect those, I think. I would like to write by candlelight even if I learn to see by searchlight.

I wonder sometimes whether I might ever be able to grow anything. I love the idea of growing things; of plunging clean fingers into rich dirt and planting seeds, rooting out weeds, clearing away dead and dying things so that living things can flourish. I could wear a wonderfully unflattering, floppy hat while I bend low to the ground, nearly crawling.

I wonder, too, whether I might ever have the privilege of caring for someone. Not about, but for. I mean the work of caring (though it sounds cold and transactional to put it that way). Might I get to feed or clothe or soothe someone I love? Who would I be that I could do such things?

I wonder if I will find, one day, that I have grown into my remotest extremities. Will I stretch myself so that my timid little soul fills my fingertips and my toes? Will I sing myself through the top of my head? Will I become radiant with heat and flame?

a meditation on when death comes

There is no discovery without risk and what you risk reveals what you value.
― Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body

I am risk-averse. I hate to say a thing if it isn't true but I'll avoid even saying the true things if they get too close to what is raw, real, and risky.

I feel hungry for beauty and I seek it out in electronic images. Pictures of mountains, especially taken close-up, from the valley below, captivate me utterly. I almost get to the point of saying "I want to go there or to some similar place. I want to see that, to feel it." But I stop. Could I? Would I, really? Or would I find every reason to stay at home, sip my sweet milky tea, and scroll through images on a dead screen? The answer is the latter, every time. So no, no I do not want such beauty that badly.

I am drawn, moth-like, to the alchemy of romance, to the burning fire and passion of it. To think of wooing and being wooed tantalizes; to think of the dance enraptures. But would I really? Would I throw my heart into the crucible―all of it or else the magic will fail? Or would I coat myself in nacre and, from my untouchable prettiness, find fault with every would-be lover? The latter. Always the latter.

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.   ―Mary Oliver, "When Death Comes"

Meditation on "There is only one of everything"

All day I have thought I was empty--empty of even the ghost of desire--
but the smell of herbs and water simmering fills me with longing for the life I have.

There is a woman at my church who looks like Margaret Atwood
(In my head, I say, Oh, Margaret Atwood is in her usual place)
I feel Atwood-like, smelling the simmering herbs:

I can even say it,
though only once and it won't

last: I want this. I want
this. 

There is  only one of everything, isn't there, Margaret?

This is my life, this is the life I love:
The herbs and the simmering
The people in their places
The poetry and the song
The hot and thick afternoon air I love to hate
Even the burning toast; even the burning toast
Is mine, is me, and I love it.