Don't let the title fool you. She's not gone, nor has she gone anywhere. My realization that she has a life and I'm not always the center of it, is what waned and then re-appeared.
I'm sure you all are wondering when I will share a piece by William Stafford, or even tell you who he is. I'm still in exploration, and will be for some time, because this guy has done that much writing. I'll share when I've had my fun.
Anyhow, as a student, I've always been the one to read ahead - not to ignore, but to make sure I know what I'm talking about before I start running my mouth. I happened upon a poem in the coursework packet called "The Way It Is."
There's a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn't change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread. But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you cant get lost.
Tragedies happen, people get hurt
or die, and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you can do can stop time's unfolding.
You don't ever let go of the thread.
And then the reel-to-reel in my brain clanked, connected, and began to flicker and spin. The scene depicted a backyard party beneath a grape arbor that acted like a gazebo in the summer. The air smelled of lilies, barbecue chicken, mint, and sweet grapes. There were people mingling, music playing, and a call to attention. "TIME," the voice commanded. Everyone went quiet, someone turned down the radio.
Time stands still for no one
It heals all wounds, I'm told.
Time possesses value
More precious than refined gold.
Wait until time starts running out,
And a precious life is gone.
Then time becomes eternal
In memories that live on.
Time is set, yet it continues
As it has from the start.
It takes time, yet, time can't take
Sweet memories from the heart.
I came back to my senses, and someone in class was sharing what they had written. I had missed an entire writing session reminiscing on a poetry reading my mom had hosted in our small backyard during some summer in the early 90s.
"My mother wrote a poem that has the same theme, as 'The Way It Is," I shared.
I always liked her writing. To be able to compare her work to that of an icon was so esteeming, that I knew what I had to do. It was time to get her writing again.
I'm sure you all are wondering when I will share a piece by William Stafford, or even tell you who he is. I'm still in exploration, and will be for some time, because this guy has done that much writing. I'll share when I've had my fun.
Anyhow, as a student, I've always been the one to read ahead - not to ignore, but to make sure I know what I'm talking about before I start running my mouth. I happened upon a poem in the coursework packet called "The Way It Is."
There's a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn't change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread. But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you cant get lost.
Tragedies happen, people get hurt
or die, and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you can do can stop time's unfolding.
You don't ever let go of the thread.
And then the reel-to-reel in my brain clanked, connected, and began to flicker and spin. The scene depicted a backyard party beneath a grape arbor that acted like a gazebo in the summer. The air smelled of lilies, barbecue chicken, mint, and sweet grapes. There were people mingling, music playing, and a call to attention. "TIME," the voice commanded. Everyone went quiet, someone turned down the radio.
Time stands still for no one
It heals all wounds, I'm told.
Time possesses value
More precious than refined gold.
Wait until time starts running out,
And a precious life is gone.
Then time becomes eternal
In memories that live on.
Time is set, yet it continues
As it has from the start.
It takes time, yet, time can't take
Sweet memories from the heart.
I came back to my senses, and someone in class was sharing what they had written. I had missed an entire writing session reminiscing on a poetry reading my mom had hosted in our small backyard during some summer in the early 90s.
"My mother wrote a poem that has the same theme, as 'The Way It Is," I shared.
I always liked her writing. To be able to compare her work to that of an icon was so esteeming, that I knew what I had to do. It was time to get her writing again.