It's taken me over 4 years to get to the point of actually posting on this blog that I registered on a whim. Between being intensely private and a fear of being narcissistic (but who am I kidding, really), I've been stuck in writer's block. And then, there's the whole question of audience - just whom am I writing to?
But perhaps I am overthinking this, as I do so many things. This blog was born of a couple of beloved poems, and a phrase from a journal entry from a tired, lonely day. These, perhaps better than anything else, will tell you about me.
I sing of the butterfly
fluttering above the geraniums.
I sing of the leaves on the aspen
trembling in a which-way breeze.
I sing of petunias
brilliantly pink after the first chill autumn night.
I sing of the forming clouds
and the greying sky,
and the wail of a train in the afternoon.
I sing of the school children who pass my door,
the little Topsy one with a new permanent wave
and the big ones who break limbs from the ash tree
and throw the orange berries in the blue bird bath.
I sing of the nieghbors who are busy
and my friends who are busy too,
and my brother whose birthday is today.
I sing of my parents who gave me life
and of my children whom I gave life,
or was it my husband,
or was it God?
I sing of God who made the heavens and the earth
and all things therein.
I sing, and as I sing I know
that God does not need my song.
The butterfly does not need my song,
nor the sky,
nor do the leaves,
nor my parents who are dead,
nor my children who are grown.
No one needs my song
But I --
I need to sing.
-- Arta Romney Ballif
Be the hearth
Where you sit
To work your clay.
I'll not say
"Shape it like this,
Or like that,"
Let me watch
In absolute agency
And let me give
A little light,
A little warmth.
Cold clay yields
To no form.
Let me be your hearth.
-- Carol Lynn Pearson
And as for me? Well, I still have songs to sing.