Like all of us, I am waiting for the something that must be said to arrive so I can pin it to the page, the moth driven to the light.
I feel like the mirror in Rilke's "You Who Never Arrived":
were still dizzy with your presence and, startled,
gave back my too-sudden image. Who knows?
perhaps the same bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, separate, in the evening...
Whatever is just past me, whatever is not me, whatever is held in the mirror where I look in and see "mirror" rather than this...self. And though the story is mine, it is not mine. And though the book speaks to me, it is not I who speaks. But this I do know: The bird that sings in me, I also sing of it.
I am working through the equation--the one I am not smart enough to figure. (Lean not on your own understanding...)
What portion of me belongs here in this world, working? What portion belongs in rest? What portion yearns for something here, from this life? And what will be left of it after I cross over?
I have tuned my ear for some song that has yet to be made in me. Your servant is listening.