Thinking My Own Thoughts
An afternoon sitting next to the pond, watching dragonflies skim the water. Two days of retreat. No cell phone, no Wi-Fi. Just a little gunfire.
An afternoon sitting next to the pond, watching dragonflies skim the water. Two days of retreat. No cell phone, no Wi-Fi. Just a little gunfire.
I catch myself not listening to a speaker’s words, but her intent. Am I listening? Or have I been seduced by subtext?
It is a cooler than normal September afternoon, and the dogs and I have dashed through fields, led by the myriad smells that propel them toward the hen four feet in front of us.
At some point I not only stopped writing poems, I stopped reading poems. I went off poetry altogether, much as one “goes off” ice cream or alcohol.
Throughout the day, this one movement – lifting of the heart – helps me open, intellectually and emotionally.
I am scared about what could have happened. This evening I feel the proximity of the wilderness. I hold this thought. I accept it.
I’m just a woman who thinks that Angels exist but who is not comfortable with this thought.
This has nothing to do with scholarship or claims of theological or biblical knowledge. It’s about the gut reaction a certain type of Being instills in me.