What do I do when
the words fail me?
When my father
died, I took up photography, bought myself a good Pentax with zoom and close-up
lenses, learned to just be quiet and look.
When my spirit was
being abused at work, I volunteered to be the dresser for a play, and learned
the language of the heart from several wonderful women of color. Without saying a thing, I immersed
myself (an adult being baptised) in their words, their world.
Other times I’ve
turned to collage (which has been calling me again); have walked and walked in
springtime hills; have lost my way so completely in the heart of an opera that
I nearly didn’t come out. I’ve
learned to paint Zen brush circles; have wordlessly spent a summer pruning potato
vine, and another finding Morris dancers in my neighborhood park; have reshaped
letters—only their outward form.
I’ve sought the past in Swiss mud, British mud, and traced the
inscriptions on Roman milestones.
Today, I’m cooking
wild rice, chanelling the autumn:
no serious cure, for a momentary loss.
image: Christie B. Cochrell, Letter Sculptures
in Treviso, Italy
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