Blueberry View

Sorry blog readers—all three of you—I have been out of touch, though anything but slacking off. I’ve been hard at work while on an artist residency revising an OLD ms, a YA novel.
 

Funny. Things you think will be hard have turned out with a modicum of effort to be easy, while the stuff I thought was going to be easy is turning into road blocks. Still, 10 chapters down. I may be hitting one of those bumps this afternoon.

Blueberry View is awesome. My view is literally row upon row of rust-colored blueberry bushes. Not so blue in the spring. I feel like I’m at a bed and breakfast—sweating words.

Something I wrote this a.m. after spending time with a bit of reading:

 New Evangelical

Until I entered a cathedral

I did not understand space.

Until I sang an 18^th century hymn

I did not feel the notes in my mouth soar.

Until I had walked in cloister gardens

I was not healed of all my unrest.

Until I visited the stations of the cross

The path to death was to be feared.

Until I heard chanting in Latin

Language was just a tool and words were arrows, Stone Age, useful for the hunt.

Until I lit candles
I sat in darkness; the warmth entered inside of me and shone forth in a place called the heart, but we were really pointing to our stomachs.

When I read the old prayers

I cried: to think I am this person.