I’m overwhelmed with the myriad ways of seeing. Mainly this overwhelming feeling comes from trying to eliminate and simplify my own philosophy of life.
The big picture versus the minute details. And when have I turned over the camera lens to see my own heart? How I perceive my world is often tainted by my clipping out unwanted subjects within and the greater world.
Early in May, I was able to participate in a poetry workshop at the Emily Dickinson Museum. I wrote in the family parlor and Emily’s father’s den. Smelled the exotic flowers growing in her Arboretum. Then took the stairs to her bedroom, where she slept, dreamt, read and wrote. I too took a pen and cut open my heart. Laid upon paper the blood. The toil of thought dripping upon white, I had not intended to spill.
Yes, I receive the universe’s lovely messages. Here and there. However, I object how rapidly it all comes at me, with barely a time to fix concreteness in my being.
How, like a bee, I buzz around the nectar. Leaving with little sweetness attached to my legs.