We read so much about how writing is an act of narcism, and I believe it is to some degree. After all, why should anyone care what I have to say? But I also believe it represents a desire to connect and understand and care for the beautiful intricacies and complicated details of the human experience. You write, "I think all writing is a form of care: care for language itself, care for subject matter, care for feeling, care for experience, care for the possible, or even care for the impossible. And if all writing is, in some way or another, a form of care, then it is also a kind of life." As a writer, I suppose that I am inherently bias, but I believe in the end, our stories are all we have; telling my own and seeking out others' is the only consistent endeavor for me in an ever-evolving world. It is a "kind of life" and the only act that helps me retain my humanity when life gets profoundly difficult or confusing.
I completely forgot about this poem. Thank you. The urgency of quotidian, to the joy in the ridiculous, to observing impossible: it’s the intimacy of that which we are desperate to hold on, to tether our most loved as they die.
The poem is so loud in sadness…but so evocative in what it feels like to have to sit quietly by in the powerless death watch. There is nothing like it……and he has caught it in a kind of word-butterfly net…without breaking the wings.
This reminds me too of that takeaway line in the movie, Shall We Dance, when Susan Sarandon says that marriage is about witnessing another person's life. Yes, there is such sacredness in that. Thank you for writing these week after week. It's my Sunday morning church.
I love this poem! Leon was my professor in college and I am still grateful for that happenstance 30+ years later. And thank you for your words, as well, Devin. I have subscribed. :-)
We read so much about how writing is an act of narcism, and I believe it is to some degree. After all, why should anyone care what I have to say? But I also believe it represents a desire to connect and understand and care for the beautiful intricacies and complicated details of the human experience. You write, "I think all writing is a form of care: care for language itself, care for subject matter, care for feeling, care for experience, care for the possible, or even care for the impossible. And if all writing is, in some way or another, a form of care, then it is also a kind of life." As a writer, I suppose that I am inherently bias, but I believe in the end, our stories are all we have; telling my own and seeking out others' is the only consistent endeavor for me in an ever-evolving world. It is a "kind of life" and the only act that helps me retain my humanity when life gets profoundly difficult or confusing.
Lump in my throat. This is so beautiful — thank you for writing this.
I completely forgot about this poem. Thank you. The urgency of quotidian, to the joy in the ridiculous, to observing impossible: it’s the intimacy of that which we are desperate to hold on, to tether our most loved as they die.
The poem is so loud in sadness…but so evocative in what it feels like to have to sit quietly by in the powerless death watch. There is nothing like it……and he has caught it in a kind of word-butterfly net…without breaking the wings.
This reminds me too of that takeaway line in the movie, Shall We Dance, when Susan Sarandon says that marriage is about witnessing another person's life. Yes, there is such sacredness in that. Thank you for writing these week after week. It's my Sunday morning church.
I am so moved by this. Thank you. I love this so much. I wish you a happy new year. ♥
I love this poem! Leon was my professor in college and I am still grateful for that happenstance 30+ years later. And thank you for your words, as well, Devin. I have subscribed. :-)
Lovely photograph, lovely post, thanks