I woke up in my fresh space without clutter. The sorting from yesterday, the sifting and recycling of papers mostly, so many books, has left me feeling lighter in my thoughts and feelings, less distracted. There are times when it’s fine and good to be messy and not care, even work productively in the disorder. There are times also, to clean up and still work productively, with appreciation for the cheerfulness of order. I particularly like this spot in Rocky Narrows, where the birdhouse, unpainted, plain, simple, available, is planted in the wetlands, overlooks the cattails, facing the river, waiting to be occupied. The cattails cycle through life: they are fluffing and quietly falling apart.
Revision. I have made a fine revision of Heaven and Earth from last week; the feedback seems to be unanimous from my group tonight, and in this rare moment I am very pleased, and also a bit surprised. After spending some more time on it this afternoon I printed it out and then doubted myself. Instead of feeling I had made a fine revision, I heard a voice saying, why are you wasting your time telling this story, again and again? When are you going to get over it? I answered back, finally, in my thoughts, this: there’s no point questioning why I’m writing about what I’m writing about, because I have to write what comes to me to write. I have to tell the stories I have to tell, even if I fear they’re only mine, and too small. Kelly’s death was large then, and traumatized me. Yes, decades ago, but I see things today that I can express in poetry, because of time passing. Probably, I’ll keep writing about losing him, maybe for the rest of my life. Not just about me losing him. About him losing his life. And who is here to speak for him, to write for him, except me, and how can I help that I am the one who is able to do this? Maybe I’ll be writing him alive for the rest of my life. .