This day last week, I nearly posted that I was going to take a blogging break until this project is over. But I couldn't bring myself to say something so decisive. Because I really wanted to be here, even if I just showed up for a moment, even if I didn't post anything.
I'm putting too much stock right now in the idea that on Thursday I'll find slack in my days again. That I'll go back to yoga and reclaim a sense of self I've let slip away. That I'll have time to write again. That I'll have time to be inspired to write again. That my patience will return and I'll have time for kindnesses too. But all this really has to happen for the simple fact that I'm slowly slipping away, losing myself in days at the office, in the humdrum commute, in the spreadsheets of my dreams.
And I've been thinking about home too, because home is the simple place I go to in my head, crude almost in its rugged simplicity, like a piece of folk furniture. And that's a lie because I don't know a place more knotted in itself than my island. But still, I strain there when all this gets too much. And its wet saltiness and the coldness of grey stone and the sulphur of seaweed all seem like things I want to bury myself in, to wear like a selkie coat.
I posted Blue Stone before. This is gray, which I want to spell grey, by Richard Hugo.
A gray stone does not change color wet
or dry. Baked on a scorched road or shaded
by cedars, underground or tossed
into a bright green sky, it's always gray.
It is the stone of earth, of the down-to-earth
no nonsense way of knowing life
does not often of its own volition provide.
A gray stone will not
change your luck or shorten the mortgage
or make you young again. It doesn't say
"now" to investments - money or love.
It doesn't say "no" when you plot wrong things
you are sure you must do with your life
or die from the drone. Keep one gray stone
in a secret place, and when those you love
are broken or gone, listen
with a sustained, with a horrible attention
to the nothing it has always had to say.