nine hundred and something

Blood boils beneath the cloak of conviction you have clothed yourself with; the warmth is even too much for you to bear. (let alone the victims of your sudden prominence)

Such laugh lines are beautiful to me, yet I, upon watching you laugh, see through to those few long years in which they were put to rest. (a season spent in licking wounds)

And if one should marvel at the beauty of a great lioness, but begin to feel afraid with each and every step with which she is to draw nearer, I should feel the same about the wonderment I've found in you. (as well as the cautiousness I'd disregarded)

  

Warmth

In the midst of an an inexplicably difficult season, the sun has decided as of a few weeks ago that it should comply with the winter solstice and allow it's light to dissipate at a much earlier hour. Last Monday, upon driving to my evening class, the sun was setting behind me as I was driving through Gopher Canyon; Copeland was once again softly resounding from my speakers, and suddenly I felt at peace. How I wish the sweetness of such stillness and warmth would present itself unto me more frequently; though I must not deny the fact that the absence of such placidity is no one's fault but mine. 

I shall leave you with an excerpt from Gilead by Marilyn Robinson:

"The moon looks wonderful in this warm evening light, just as a candle flame looks beautiful in the light of morning. Light within light. It seems like a metaphor for something...

It seems to me like a metaphor for the human soul, the singular light within the general light of existence. Or it seems like poetry within language. PErhaps wisdom within experience. Or marriage within friendship or love." 

 

Twickenham

I am currently nestled by the heater of my temporary English turf. I've such a love for this cozy, little community. I am a forty-minute train ride from the bustling city of London. Perhaps I shall return one fine day for a bit longer than ten days. Oh, the inevitable responsibilities we must carry on our shoulders that prohibit us from packing up and acting upon the beats of our hearts. 

I have, as of late, become increasingly provoked as I have been ruminating on the fact that most cannot appreciate each other unless a commonality of one's work is involved. Should you and I resist relation due to our seemingly unsimilar language? 

Yet I, too, lack grace for the opinions that have been directed towards me in regard to a lack of understanding in my interests. For instance, I feel a vast sense of contribution in the exchanging of communication. Simple, it may seem, but I believe we are all deserving of direct communication, and we've all a longing to receive it. Should one suggest that such correspondence is unproductive, I would truly doubt that he/she and I may posses any concept of each other's emotive language. How is it that an intimate friendship can exist without the discernment of another's needs, preferences, love language, etc.?

I give to you, reader, my condolences as I seem incredibly pessimistic. I'm honestly in hopeful spirits. 

Please, though, do give to me your thoughts. 

And if you've the time, listen to "On the Safest Ledge" by Copeland. 

All My Love.