I'm attending a writing workshop. It goes from today until Thursday.
I'm not sure right now where or who I am as a writer or as a person - but I will be present. The workshop leader read a wonderful poem by Deborah Digges called "the house that goes dancing", a beautiful breathtaking poem about ecstatic grief. Yes.
Our prompt from the workshop was to take the first line of that poem
I went another way in my search for silence, but do follow the music. Do. And even if you don't, thanks for reading.
Turn off the Noise Not always, but sometimes, when I turn off the music
A voice starts to mutter, then whisper, then chime
I can't always hear it, it's quiet, it's muffled
But slowly I find that the voice might be mine. It's speaking of wonder, of travel, of vision
Of Tibetan monks who tri-vocalize.
It's calling up music from high school dances
First glances, first kisses, then longing and sighs. The voice, it gets louder, up from my belly
Into my ears, my nostrils, my eyes
And finally sometimes, a word or an image
Catches my throat and speaks to surprise.