How should we be able to forget those ancient myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us.
Rainer Maria Rilke
What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness.
Those moments when another human being was there, in front of me, suffering, and I responded … sensibly. Reservedly. Mildly.
Or, to look at it from the other end of the telescope: Who, in your life, do you remember most fondly, with the most undeniable feelings of warmth?
Those who were kindest to you, I bet.
But kindness, it turns out, is hard — it starts out all rainbows and puppy dogs, and expands to include . . . well, everything.
George Saunders
I admit, it is difficult to find the energy and confidence to write a post when there are no readers. I suppose the imaginary readership in my head will have to pull its weight to keep cheering me on and encouraging me to turn out words that only they will see.
Too bad I don’t have a magic wand to wave: everyone would be entranced by my words and suddenly my blog would be overrun with zealous and inspired readers.
If in fact the two occasional readers I do have manage to spy this post, please accept my thanks for keeping me afloat.
Hats off,
Elizabeth
My sleeping old dog:
He’s dreaming—who knows what dreams?—
On the kitchen stairs
While the rain rattles the house.
How lazy, how free, how nice.
—
Draw the curtains closed!
The day has overripened.
We are tired as dogs.
We try to think of sweet things
But all we say is good night.
—
Cough spittle cough sneeze!
There’s a nip in the night air
And my bones are cold.
Cough spittle cough sneeze shiver!
Is this old body really mine?
—
Hanging up lanterns
For the winter-solstice feast,
I pricked my finger:
It was the sharp, angry jab
Of a frozen five-point star.
—
A sad face is nice,
A happy face is nicer:
Think of it like this—
The empty room is peaceful
But the full house glows with light.
Two peonies are blooming under the sky,
But I am too sick with nerves to come by
And loiter with them and ask their pardon
For looking so pale inside their garden:
They would wince, close, lose their beauty, dry;
They would drop their petals, sullen, and sigh:
Goodbye, good child, good-bye, good bye.
—
Do you know the story of the girl
Who each day climbed the hill beside the birch
To cry about the things that made her sad,
To try and recall what good things she had,
To pour out her soul to an empty church,
To search for God—and search, and search, and search?
—
I never managed to tell you these things,
But I loved the way that your hair grew long
In the winters and grew short in the springs;
I loved the way that you dined like the kings
But swore like the sailors in a shipman’s throng;
I loved the way that you’d have slipped on our rings—
Pulled from a box all wrapped up with strings—
Had you proposed, and I gone along.
But you were right, and I was wrong,
And this is the end of my remembrance-song.
I am steeling myself to write three hundred words a day. It sounds like a measly amount, but the task is hard when you have gotten used to writing in bursts that are several months apart, with nothing but dryness in-between. Just as soon as you have settled the first question—of figuring out how many words, exactly, you should be writing each day—a new and more terrifying worry steps in. What will you write about? What will you write about? All the ideas that were shining so luminously in your brain for months as you walked down the street—all those epiphanies that made you exclaim “oh, what a good story that would make!”—have suddenly turned to smoke. Your nice, buoyant feelings of inspiration have been knocked out by decidedly less pleasant sensations. Your throat constricts—the tightness is unbearable!—and your head feels heavy and weightless at the same time. Three hundred words are the merest breath of speech: light enough to throw away on the wind. But how they put you in a tailspin! With one part of your brain, you size up the dilemma. It is absurd, you say; you are bringing this panic upon yourself. But another part of your brain can’t shake the flutter of nerves. Perhaps this panic is the reason you avoided the writing for so long—so long, in fact, that you questioned whether you were really meant to be a writer after all. Your thoughts are soupy, your shoulders are tight, you can’t breathe except in thin, raggedy breaths. Are you terribly sure this is what you want? Maybe being a writer isn’t all you bargained for. Well, you say hopefully, the nausea might get better with time. Till then, you will take the easy route and write about not being able to write. It might be a sort of cheat, a cheap way to meet your quota. But words are words, and you will do what you need to do. So you pull in your chair, roll up your sleeves, and—oh! look there! you’ve already managed three hundred-fifty words. Delighted with the sheer abundance of the number, you fold your hands, congratulate yourself for surpassing the call of duty, and collapse in a tired, befuddled heap.
Prayer of St. Teresa of Ávila.
Nada te turbe;
nada te espante;
todo se pasa;
Dios no se muda.
La paciencia
todo lo alcanza.
Quien a Dios tiene
nada le falta.
Solo Dios basta.
(English translation)
Let nothing disturb you,
let nothing frighten you,
all things are passing.
God never changes.
Patience attains all things.
Whoever has God lacks nothing.
God alone suffices.