🌀 Convergence 🌀
A poem
This week we’re pleased to present new work from of , who is mostly known for her illustrations and essays. She joined a recent Foster Cohort and surprised herself by writing the lovely poem below, along with the accompanying illustration.
Foster offers a full calendar of Writing Circles that are free and open to everyone. Join us and write something that surprises you, too! RSVP here.
Convergence
By
I keep reaching and reaching,
Why do I keep reaching for something unreachable?
It’s not a thought I can forcefully pull out
by sitting inside at a desk tapping and typing.
Though I’ve tried.
It seems it can’t be pulled.
I suppose it’s too big for that.
I’ve come to believe
that it can only be found,
discovered,
revealed,
when hand, mind, and heart converge on the page.
Perhaps for you
the keys, the strings, the stage.
But for me, the page.
I can hear it in the silent, dreamlike state
when lying in the dark
next to my dreaming child.
I can hear it in the drawing I made
when I didn’t want to make it.
A drawing I didn’t mean to make,
a drawing that made itself.
I can hear it in a song
that plucks the strings of
something
deep inside.
I don’t have to understand it for it to come.
(I’ve come to believe it’s impossible to understand.)
I only have to open up,
get out of the way,
and let it in.
I don’t have to articulate it,
Or define it,
Or explain it.
I don’t have to put it in a box,
draw a box around it,
or draw a line from it to something else.
Though I’ve tried.
There’s nothing to define,
no way to put a box around it.
There is no way to connect connection.
Instead of trying to tell it what it is,
I can listen to it,
Speak with it,
Dance with it,
Sing with it,
Commune with it.
For a moment, I can swim in the extraordinary.
And then,
when the art has been made,
I can let it go
and let it be.
I can say thank you,
stand up,
and then,
re-enter the ordinary
a little differently.
To hug a child,
To cook an egg,
To ride a bike.
I’ve come to believe in this.
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