I apologize to my faithful readers for being delinquent in my posting of late. Even though I was out of town and then recovering from a cold, the real reason I’ve hestitated is that I am reconsidering what it is I want to do with my blog. I’m currently in transition with what I’m doing here; not in the larger existential scheme, perhaps, but then again…What is true is that I may be moving into a different phase with my blog. I need a little change. I think at this point, I may help my readers more by simply sharing the events of my writer’s life rather than actually trying to prompt you or give advice. “What the heck is she trying to say here?” you may well ask. Nothing, except my writing may become a little more personal and present tense. You can draw your own conclusions and decide whether it inspires you or not, rather than my actively attempting to inspire, encourage, or force you (if I could) to write. While I’m in this semi-confusing phase, I don’t want you to have to look at the same thing all the time, so I’ll throw a little of this and that at you and see where that leads us. For now, here is a souvenir from my trip to Western North Carolina where I was surrounded by my beloved Appalachians. Hopefully, you will see this poem again as a collaboration with my friend and well-know artist, Jane Voorhees. May your creativity and the beauty of Earth heal you at every turn.
These Healing Mountains
In these healing mountains,
a kindling flame dwells–like love,
which burns from the inside out.
Whether autumn leaves are turning
or it’s the time of tender green,
you can watch the changing of the light
as each season comes then goes;
surrounded, as if by friends encircled and embraced,
comforted, never alone.
From what we know as cold, gray stone
warmth emanates, reaching out
through bony fingers of towering trees;
each solitary leaf
flames from a multi-colored match.
Sunlight patterns our sight–
here, an avalanche of black-eyed Susans,
there, fire pinks and violets.
Open to these mountains like a soul
surrendering and willing,
warming like a late May sunrise in your chest
or slumbering softly through a soaking rain
that fattens up the creeks and rivers
until the trout rise high with it,
until you yourself are fresh and green