Lately I have been thinking a lot about poetry.  Well more accurately all the poems I have not written.  In fact it has been months since a poem has flowed out of my pen and on to the page.

Which is a bit disconcerting.  In fact I had held off on posting to the Wandering Hermit because I thought I would have a new poem to share here.  But not yet. 

In the online community of contemplative women that I belong to called “The Light House”, there is a space where us writers hang out.  It is a safe place where we can share our work without criticism or judgement.  I love this space and I go there often - to be inspired and to read what others have written.

But I have not posted a new work there for some time.

In fact, last week I posted one of my older poems just so I could remind myself that I can indeed write one.  It’s that kind of place.  Welcoming and spacious.

Once a month we rotate posting something in the space for inspiration.  Something to help us get our ink flowing.  Something for the other writers and creators in the group. 

Not exactly a prompt but more a series of thoughts.  Or a quote.  Or a picture.  A song.  And the most recent one was a short essay on wind.  And just like that – something blew into my life that had the inklings of a poem floating about the edges.

After many months, I once again felt that itch of inspiration growing on the tips of my fingers.  I was eager to get my pen and notebook out and start playing with the idea.  And so far - it has stayed comfortably ensconced in the play section - slowly taking shape.  It is not ready to become a full fledge poem.  It’s still incubating.

A few years back, I had a vision during meditation of Mary Oliver visiting me in the woods.  She was distracted and had a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, her notebooks and pencil in hand, and never really looked me in the eyes.  Instead her attention was drawn into the distant woods.  As if she was eager to get back out there and pay attention.  But before she left, she handed me this huge disorderly stack of papers.  Many of the pages were tattered.  Others were just bits and pieces of notebooks and napkins with a few words sketched on them.  Some were full fledge manuscripts.  As soon as I took the stack, I knew that it was all the poetry that ever did, and ever will, exist in the world.  And it felt like a holy text resting in my hands.  Sacred beyond measure.

Dreams and visions are like this.  They tell us things that we might not be able to accept in our wakeful state - when reality has to have edges and sides and make perfect sense.  But when we are in a state of dream or meditation, we can accept truths that don’t make sense, that don’t add up.  And we can feel their significance.  It is in the trying to describe it to someone in the wakeful side of life that the truth starts to feel sort of strange and we begin to dismiss it.

But I have not allowed myself to do that with this vision.  It felt to much like gift to toss it away as some fantastical silliness.  When one of the people you most admire in the world shows up in your meditation you pay attention - and you hold on to whatever gift they might happen to hand you.

So here I stand, with a mystical stack of papers with all the poetry in the world written on them and no poetry currently flowing out of my pen.  Just bits and pieces of something that might one day become a poem.

But there is another thing that Mary Oliver taught me.  Poetry is work.  From time to time you get that amazing poem that flows out word for word and never changes - but it doesn’t usually happen that way. 

Instead it more often happens like this. 

Something catches your eye or your ear – a momentary event or some small happening.  Or maybe it is a word, or a birdsong that suspends itself for just a little longer than normal and you find yourself seeing the layers that rest below it.  That are not visible to the naked eye.  And you make note of it.  And it begins to grow in your subconscious and you play with it and ask it questions.  You look for it to find other places of meaning in the world and in your daily life.  And slowly – very slowly - a poem begins to emerge. 

And you work it.  And you work it.  And you work it.  And if you are diligent - and stick with it - a poem finds its way into the world.

And this is where I am right now.

And it feels utterly delicious.

Inspired by that essay I know that this poem is about wind.  But also about spirit and trees.  About paying attention.  About being alive.  About the sacredness of creation. 

Which is what all my poems are about I suppose - altars where words rest on the surface pointing you back to the mystery of life.

Last weekend we took a drive down to Gulf Coast State Park here in Alabama.  Imagine white sand beaches and sparkling blue water.  In the warmer months I can see how it would be packed with beachgoers and sunbathers.  But for us it was freezing cold.  And the wind was blowing something fierce.  The sun was shining but we were only able to stand on the beach for a few minutes before we got ice headaches from the wind and had to jump back in the truck.

But back in my notebook in Biggest Betty was a poem about wind that was trying to be born. And the synchronicity of it all caught me and held me suspended in the moment.

The wind seemed to have more to tell me.  And just below the surface of all that sparking water sparkled something even more mysterious.  A poem. 

So stay tuned.  I think something is about to blow in and it might just look like a new poem.  My first in a very, very long time.