It is never my custom to use words lightly. If twenty-seven years in prison have done anything to us, it was to use the silence of solitude to make us understand how precious words are and how real speech is in its impact on the way people live and die. -Nelson Mandela, activist, South African president, Nobel laureate (18 Jul 1918-2013)
You and your words are made from the same elements as the stars, You silence is equally precious. Give yourself a half hour of silence and then find your way to the real with your words. Please send me what emerges. Thank you, mary
And thank you, Lynette Sheppard: Words / as slippery as smooth grapes, / words exploding in the light / like dormant seeds waiting / in the vaults of vocabulary, / alive again, and giving life: / once again the heart distills them. -Pablo Neruda, poet, diplomat, Nobel laureate (12 Jul 1904-1973)
A person who has always taken sanctuary in the outdoors suddenly doesn’t want to go outside…
She can almost smell the tangy pines, the astringent, clean granite, the freshness of the water in its multiple hues. Scrawking blue jays, chirruping squirrels, the susurrus of aspen leaves in the wind: these have always been the soundtrack for her life. She misses them with an ache that blunts her breath. She grasps the doorknob, preparing to twist it and swing the door wide.
No, no, no. Not today. Not now. Not yet.
She retreats to the couch, looking out her window at the Lake. Desire is more manageable from her bell jar. In the past, sh sought safety, joy, and yes, love from the outdoors. Things are different now.
Longing bayonets her and she gasps with pain. The last time she was “out”, she very nearly didn’t come back.
The glass panes keep her from dissolving into the spaces between branches. They keep her from drifting deeper into the blue surrounded by glittering flecks of mica. They keep her from wearing lupine and sage as her only garments.
Inside the jar, she retains a vestige of self. Outside, it may no longer be possible.
‘Might this be as good as it gets, from here on out?’ she wonders.
This single sensory experience contained within the window frame, enhanced by memory, fading a little more each day. — Lynette Sheppard
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