Half asleep I stumbled
slowly into the kitchen
and then looked up and out
of the huge picture window,
startled by the impression of eyes
watching me with wariness.
Two deer standing still
with their ears cupped towards
me, and their soft eyes
waiting for me to make the first
move, so I waited too.
Then I whispered, knowing
my husband already half awake
would hear me, and come rubbing
his eyes to stop stock still in the
hallway and watch them, watching us.
Finally, deciding we were harmless,
they twitched their ears, and went
on eating the rose buds.
The cat meowed, and our reverie
broken, we moved as they did,
slowly going about our breakfast.
I'm not sure this is really poetry, but I wanted to write it out quickly, and try to capture the stillness and the watchfulness, the peace in the midst of preparation for the day.
"Writing is a dance of language." Ivan Doig said it first, and I often play with that idea, and what it means for me. Some days it is about the rush of excitement, the keys pounding furiously to an upbeat rhythm. Some days it is about the moment of stillness in the midst of a blessedly full life.
Dancing flows, pounds, leaps, stomps, and embraces the music of life. Writing flows, pounds, leaps, stomps, and embraces the nuances of life. Both dancing and writing reflect and encourage living. My hope is that someday, my writing will have that kind of spark, that rhythm that draws us closer in relationship to God, and each other. I've seen dance, and read writing that does that.
So, on the days when I sigh, and think, I would just like to finish a novel and get it published, I know that I have big dreams that maybe aren't big enough. I hope someday to have a novel published, but I also hope that my writing truly becomes a dance of language.