Why we are here

Yesterday afternoon I waited in front of the Bulldog for schillerium, sipping an excellent latté and reading Natalie Goldberg to prepare for a writing seminar I will give this Saturday:

There’s an old adage in writing: “Don’t tell, but show.” What does this actually mean? It means don’t tell us about anger (or any of those big words like honesty, truth, hate, love, sorrow, life, justice, etc.); show us what made you angry. We will read it and feel angry.

In a second floor apartment someone practiced Bach cello suites with a window open. Higher still, a hammering of nails resounded from a balcony. The big maple shading one end of the patio had already spread its new leaves wide like palms in the sun.

When Craig arrived we hugged for a moment then sat near one another for two hours talking. I hadn’t seen him since Torvald’s memorial. We talked about why we are here.

The maple stands there photosynthesizing in the balm of afternoon, dropping spent flowers on the sidewalk. The cellist stops practicing and does something else. The sky is blue like the roof of a cathedral, but that’s an illusion. Behind it space reaches to infinity.