Sabbath

What day do you stop for rest and reflection? What day do you let your heart remember who you are?

Sunday is my new writing day. Light traffic passes the house. Beach goers slowly arrive and  cross the street, attend to the ocean. I am at my desk, silent. I enter a day of solitude, restoration. I am ” keeping the Sabbath,” remembering who I am, what I know. Entering the work I love.

Writing in Community on Retreat

Yesterday I realized I was writing about writing and not getting down to the work  I had intended to do on the unfinished nonfiction manuscript, although I could feel momentum building. I also felt fear.  Finally I opened the large folder, opened the file in my computer, not knowing where to begin. I read for a while and formed  questions which I wrote in my notebook. The manuscript began 5 years ago. I worked diligently for two years and then it sat in a bin for nearly three years. I live in a resort town at the beach. There  are many distractions, especially this holiday weekend. But I was determined not to allow distracted. The time had come. Fear or no fear. I emailed my first reader, a gifted, accomplished writer, hoping she would respond. She has the experience of completing a book, having it published. Meanwhile, I also emailed my daughter, my biggest fan and noble friend.  By the time she called me, she confirmed my own inclination to work on a small section. And so yesterday I worked on section 12 with good results. Immediately, I witnessed the difference in my writing. Clearer, perhaps more confident. I ended the day knowing I had begun.

And this morning my friend returned my email with a brillant suggestion. So generous, even loving. Once again, call and response. And another remider that while we work alone we are surrounded by  community. I feel the collective, radiant energy of encouragement.

“What thou lovest well remains…”

This morning walking, ipod set on shuffle, the mysterious happened again; between songs, a recording of a poem. Last week it was The Invitation, the week before, The Waking by Theodore Roethke. Today, Ezra Pound’s Canto’s, Canto LXXXI, to be exact. The voice sounded strangely like Robert Pinsky. ” What thou lovest well remains, the rest is dross. What  thou lovest well shall not be reft from thee. What thou lovest well is thy true heritage.”Again I’m astounded. I have no recollection of uploading or downloading these poems. No recollection of a CD containing these recordings. The voices are unfamiliar. They are not the voices of the poets. I researched my files. I found nothing.  I completely give myself over  to the miracle of a cosmic download. Poems delivered randomly. The poem I need most on a particular day, like today. ” What thou lovest well remains.” Today, the second day of my writing retreat.  I’m at my desk again. Manuscript open. Notebook open. Pen in hand.  Poems scattered about. Books open on the floor beside my chair.  Yesterday the return. Today the reminder.

My dear teacher, Liam Rector was taught by the Modernist scholar, Hugh Kenner, who visited Pound every Thursday when he was held in St. Elizabeth’s Hospital.  Rector taught me to read Pound. Pound taught me to “make it new.”  Heritage. My heritage. The persistent pursuit of a life of letters.

Returning

For six months my poetry and non-fiction work in progress was contained in a plastic bin stored in the trunk of my car. It went everywhere with me. Finally, I carried the heavy bin up the steep stairs to my studio apartment.  I began to reread what was written. Some of which, I still liked. Then I  moved again. The writing went back in the bin. With this move, I gained a study. A small room with two windows, one facing the ocean, the other a side yard. Even though the view is blocked by larger houses, the horizon and shore  is ever present. For months until my belongings were gathered from five locations, the writing stayed in the bin tucked under my desk. I bought furniture with baskets for storage and planned to use the top to organize my writing:  poems and prose.  Finally, the work came out of the bin and placed in three piles: one for poems  and two for prose. The writing remained untouched for several more months.

Today I begin my first at home writing retreat after three years of constant change.  Nothing remains of my former life except family love, a few friends, my old car and writing stored in a bin.

I understand I am down to it by default. Time taken off from work for plans that became impossible, leaving days of unstructured time. Time to return to the writing and begin my newest life.