A long time ago, I used to wake in the night when Sophie was seizing and then not be able to go back to sleep. I'd lie still, on my back and stare at the ceiling, humor the chaos, allow it to creep in, take over. I'd think about death and trial and tribulation, violins would be playing furiously, chins tucked, eyes closed. I'd get on my knees and plead for mercy from a god that was as substantial as the wisps of reason that sailed through the room (not very much). In my mind I was dressed in the black of my southern Italian grandmother, veiled and dolorous, confounded by the disappearance of light. I would fall asleep, eventually, and wake in gray light, nearly embarrassed at what I had loosed the night before.
We are all cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out.
Two beautiful writers.ReplyDelete
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Once again, you take my breath away. Especially stunning are the last two lines. The way you evoke your grandmother, the word dolorous. Beautiful.ReplyDelete
("Noah" was me. Oops.)
I came across this article on our local news feed, thought of you...(NOT SPAM)ReplyDelete
You must to write a book, Elizabeth. You simply must.ReplyDelete
Why is it that our minds run so loose in the dark? There is nothing more adrenaline producing than a child who needs his or her mother in the dead of night, and it is so easy to project from there.ReplyDelete
In the dark, there are bears in my tent. In the morning, it was a small rodent looking for crumbs. The imagination is vast.ReplyDelete
Quite a trick that is.ReplyDelete
you have certainly mastered the art of tipping...ReplyDelete
Beauty tipping out right here.ReplyDelete
I felt like I was kneeling beside you.ReplyDelete
Love that Bradbury quote. That's such a great way to think about the creative process.ReplyDelete
The Fallacy of Night.ReplyDelete
Thank you for reminding me it is indeed a fallacy.