
What is sacred about all of our lives, even those of us who would never dream of using such a word for it, is that God speaks to us through what happens to us - even through such unpromising events as walking up the road to get the mail out of the mailbox, maybe, or seeing something in the news that brings you up short, or laughing yourself silly with a friend. If skeptics ask to be shown an instance of God speaking to them in their lives, I suggest that they pay closer attention to the next time when, for unaccountable reasons, they find tears in their eyes.
-- Frederick Buechner
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The Last Six Days
We’re both writers.
Her volume of writing, mostly poetry has demonstrated that she Is most certainly a poet, after more than a decade of practice discovering, recognizing, crafting, and honoring her own voice.
She is focused, observant, precise, and brilliant in a way she doesn’t really know, and her poetry stops me completely when I hear or read it
She writes a lot upstairs, here in our home, in her studio, a room of unfinished wood floors and ample sunshine I like to call The Barn
And I love knowing she is up there, being a poet, or whatever she chooses to be any day.
We’re both writers.
My volume of writing is mostly journaled streams of thought, and impulsively penned ideas from conversations. It leads to lots of words, some of which become, eventually, songs, fiction, and poetry. And I’ve spread them across pocket notebooks, journals, word processors, and phone apps, in a non-system that works somehow for me.
I’m not as focused or organized as she I tend to be more like a creative breeze in search of a box than a constant, practicing writer. But I've grown faithful, lately to something like a practice, thanks to our writing community, and the years of sharing my life with another writer, my love, the poet.
I write downstairs, usually. Sometimes on the porch or deck or in the big windowed sitting room, and other times in the messier but musical, book-filled room simply called Randy’s space.
And she loves knowing I am writing, or reading, or singing, or playing guitar, here in our home, in our sweet little life, in whatever room I happen to choose that day.
We’re both writers.
For the last six days, I’ve been writing, early every morning, in this spiral book, writing what the doctor told us, and catching words we’ve told each other, words with which we’ve held each other in these difficult moments and hours, so they will not be forgotten or washed out in the next day's flood.
And she’s been writing on her screen, often in the middle of the night, to shed and to capture the words that won’t let her sleep, or eat, for that matter, for the last six days.
(c) rbweeks 3/22/17 - 3/25/17 - 3/28/17 - 3/29/17 - 6/15/17 - 7/24/17 - 6/13/18
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