"we turn our love, through writing, into an imagination. nothing could be more anchoring, than the homeland of this imagination. " +1 I love the homeland of this imagination too.
I love Mary Oliver's Poem too. "The Uses of Sorrow" Darkness is like chocolates. I taste sweetness. And it is still love. I love aranya's "a kind of home". "It's stillness/is in its movement". We are always home. That's beautiful. I hope to publish your writing one day.
Thank you for this caring response, the fragrance of poetly wafting upon it. So many poems are digesting by the writer’s mind before it can compose an echo so strong and layered. I notice recently that for me to feel (allow myself to feel) anger or frustration with something, I tend to distance myself from it, and to distance myself from it, I create a narrative of harm. Without the story of harm, I don’t know to keep the heart safe. I am yet to learn how to hold gratitude and anger at the same time. I notice that in your essay, one doesn’t have to distrust the tv show Friends to seek the reality of friends. That one can enjoy both as if they were two separate verses of the same poem. I aspire to such equanimity. I aspire to expression of love for friends without storification of this is better than that. The way you described the gathering - I want to learn such gentle ways of being friends. I think I’m already there, if I can see it in your writing, I will soon see it mine. Perhaps in morning pages or text messages before substack. Perhaps 10 more years of accepting things as they are and i’ll have a new essay on friendship. Until then, look forward to meeting on the page, with hat tip to Eunice DeSouza. ♥️
"we turn our love, through writing, into an imagination. nothing could be more anchoring, than the homeland of this imagination. " +1 I love the homeland of this imagination too.
I love Mary Oliver's Poem too. "The Uses of Sorrow" Darkness is like chocolates. I taste sweetness. And it is still love. I love aranya's "a kind of home". "It's stillness/is in its movement". We are always home. That's beautiful. I hope to publish your writing one day.
Dear aranya,
Thank you for this caring response, the fragrance of poetly wafting upon it. So many poems are digesting by the writer’s mind before it can compose an echo so strong and layered. I notice recently that for me to feel (allow myself to feel) anger or frustration with something, I tend to distance myself from it, and to distance myself from it, I create a narrative of harm. Without the story of harm, I don’t know to keep the heart safe. I am yet to learn how to hold gratitude and anger at the same time. I notice that in your essay, one doesn’t have to distrust the tv show Friends to seek the reality of friends. That one can enjoy both as if they were two separate verses of the same poem. I aspire to such equanimity. I aspire to expression of love for friends without storification of this is better than that. The way you described the gathering - I want to learn such gentle ways of being friends. I think I’m already there, if I can see it in your writing, I will soon see it mine. Perhaps in morning pages or text messages before substack. Perhaps 10 more years of accepting things as they are and i’ll have a new essay on friendship. Until then, look forward to meeting on the page, with hat tip to Eunice DeSouza. ♥️