Thursday, October 13, 2011
How We Do It - Part V in an ongoing series
I wake each morning in the cracks between dark and dawn, the first thought wispy peaceful intention threaded with dread, pushed away and vanquished by the thin band of light that angles through tangled rubbery leaves draped over the wooden fence and through the glass, along the wrinkled sheet and down the bed, spilling over. I wake to breath, to hope, to fear and trembling, the weight of the past and the future eclipsed. Is she alive? How will we do it? How will I? The questions are the light; they reach across the hall and into rooms, the answers could go anywhere, and I can't explain how it is to tamp it all down, make like a stream, unruffled and quiet.
The beginning is near.
Posted by Elizabeth at 4:00 PM
Labels: How We Do It, me
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Over and over again I am astonished/astounded by your words, your deeds, your life.ReplyDelete
OH, Elizabeth. Even though you have been telling us how you do it, I don't know how you do it.ReplyDelete
You have a wonderful gift with words.ReplyDelete
My God, Elizabeth. Your soul, your writing...just so painfully beautiful.ReplyDelete
Agree wholeheartedly with all of the above. You do make like a stream- deep, dark, endless, light. You carry us with you. When you figure out the unruffled part, let me know, wouldya?ReplyDelete
Wow. This is like a poetic version of the conversation Steve and I had this morning. You are in my head and writing my thoughts - only more eloquently.ReplyDelete
Here's the some clear smooth waters for a while.
"How we do it?" Answers lie very, very deep within us, in places which are yet to be discovered. Maybe in our next lifetime?ReplyDelete
If it isn't too presumptious of me to say this, I just want to say, "thank you for putting words to my life." To so many lives. I hate that this is your life, my life, the life of so many. Even though there is love and grace and beauty somehow all mixed in. I still hate it. But I am so very grateful for the fellowship of those who live it, who inspire me to live it, with courage and grace.ReplyDelete
I don't know how you do it. I really don't. But you do and when you write about I am always amazed.ReplyDelete
This is such a great image, Elizabeth. Brava, bella.ReplyDelete
I love that mystical crack between dark and dawn.ReplyDelete
The questions are the light.
Amen to that sister.
Exquisite and poignant words to describe your daily dilemma. How to go on living and hoping in the face of such pain. Thank you for capturing it so well. It must ache to write.ReplyDelete
I don't know how you do it but I am glad that somehow you do. No words tonight. Just I'm here.ReplyDelete
Reading your words, paying attention to them, but silently.ReplyDelete
Just wanted to let you know.
*sniff* and *hug* xoReplyDelete
Elizabeth, you're the best poetry.ReplyDelete
This short paragraph was more real and alive than anything I've read in a long time. I felt your feeling and it made a tightness in my chest.
Thank you for sharing this, and the others of your 'How we do it' posts. They're my favorites (along with mermaid at the beach pictures).
I'm back from a week in Sonoma Valley. With a month of traveling and deadlines I haven't kept up, looking forward to getting to read friends again daily.
Thank you, Elizabeth, for the feeling in your words.ReplyDelete
So very beautiful and poignant, thank you.ReplyDelete
Tears in my eyes and my throat. That anxiety upon waking is so intrusive.ReplyDelete
Sending love and light.
While I love everything you write, I believe this may be the most beautiful thing I've read in a long time. Just breathtaking. Literally. I held my breath through the whole thing. One paragraph, and you have conjured a whole life.ReplyDelete
For years I believed Katie would die one day. The doctors had no idea what was wrong with her, how could they tell me if she would live or die?ReplyDelete
But for you it's different. People do die from seizures, it's a fact that you live with every day. Life is just hard. Good thing we have sunshine and oceans, not to mention the laughter of young children.