Iíve just come in from the back yard where Iím digging a space beneath an ornamental blue pine to build a small pond. I like the serene character of ponds and the graceful goldfish that inhabit them. They bring a flowing sense of calm to those swirling currents of SA that attempt to erode my inner banks. Writing poetry has a similar affect, well at least the ones that donít go dark. Far too many do. But far more donít they just donít have a place here.
Okay, I know whatís the big deal about shoveling dirt to make tiny ditches filled with water from my garden hose? Insignificant stuff really, when comparing it to being raped or or assaulted. Yet, I find creating, these pools, that most likely will fill up with moss creating another maintenance nightmare, necessary for my healing.
What do others do to find meaning and comfort?
Edited by earlybird (04/05/11 12:29 AM)
Balanced (My goal)
There is symmetry