writing with a dull pencil

Breathing.

No cleverness here or now. Meaning me.

We’ll let hesitate what I’m doing here. Maybe I’ll even understand myself. Raw. That’s the fence between here and me.

I’m remembering a re-expression of an old John Denver song, “All this Joy”, that came to me. The answer to pain is love.

There’s a duet in process there. But focus of late is elusive. Fewer words are less a choice than necessity. Shorter threads, shorter breath. Disconcerting understates my witness, my participant point of view.

Standing on my night sky balcony I have about a thirty second view of the ferryboats crossing the Sound. Some many lights in motion, or even the day white hull reflecting a blue sky sun. Beautiful. Lips curve into a smile. But most days the cloudy air is cold. Left hand says the colder air is more welcome to my breath, if not body in whole. From my California blood, Winters here are long and shivering.

Times I’ve said, I really have only one rule about writing poems. Tell only the truth about life. You know, don’t lie about the way it is.

I think I’ll need to approach in small bites. These impressions are a school of fish. Obvious in the whole, but none individually linger for either inspection or homesteading very long. Scattering. Elusive. Unbitten.

Alright, what’s happening, what’s the point here, today? I resist saying it seems. A blood disorder, serious, but behaving itself. But now over two months in, sinus pressure that don’t quit and an unruly heart. Standing on two feet but tire easily and simple focus, well, not a frequent companion these days. I feel trivial of a sort in the face of Very Big Life. I tell myself these are secondary issues but that’s not how they feel. I feel as a youngster staring into the unknown. Shortness of breath means more than printed text. Personal. Threatening. Even if not literally true. Emotional attitudes make their own rules about perception.

Chickens and eggs? Emotions and thoughts? Is one closer to who I am, what I am? Are they even really two? I am looking. Emotions have the impact of moving earth. Come to physical maladies, and there’s a test. What’s really true. Assurances that challenges that way bring up emotional response rather ripe. Yet thoughts remain resident too. Life speaks its own language in a variable sense of real. For me, there’s a Christian real and a Buddhist real, each a contribution to understanding.

One medical issue, a shortness of breath gets the lions share of attention these many days. Fragile. Fragile. A matter of scale. Temporary (we mostly think otherwise, don’t we… really). Dying is simply going home. My breath is already in the air. Years worth. I am the Sun and the Light and the wind and rain, the trees and leaves, (and paper too), everything that eats and moves and sees the sky. Leaving is not what it seems. Sleep. And sleep neither is what it seems. Things are astir. And I don’t want to leave this living Life. Honest. Knowing you means my life to me. Seeing you is my joy. Didn’t live most of my time within that blessed point of view. I do now.

Forgive my stubbornness. I mean to be more kind than I have.

By this writing venue I want to say deepening thanks to all who’ve contributed and supported my expressions here. You who’ve read and gifted back your attention. Your good care is appreciated.

I don’t know tomorrows face. Writing has mostly of late required more focus than seems my companion here. But you are in mind and I’ll do what I can to continue. Even not knowing what. Or maybe how.

I want to be visible, more visible. I want to say my appreciations. My gratitude. Anything else would be a lie. May we receive what is given us.

I pray healing for you for whatever wants healing in your life. May these words be healing by unspoken nature. As it is, so be it.

Sing your Songs. We listen.

A sigh is still a breath, I suppose. (Thank you Ren) Love, Neil

2 thoughts on “writing with a dull pencil

  1. Short breath=more=always catching up. Massively tiring. But you sound good/yourself. A big plus.
    Here in the landlocked Southeast it is pollen season and The Season of Clashing Weathers. One day Alberta, the next day Cancun. Packed a week’s worth of clothes for a weekend retreat—not for vanity—layers. Wound up living in one bulky sweater and doing erasure poems from the novel Jaws. Advice: try erasures, avoid the fish. Thanks for the update. b

    Like

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