Evensong XVI (29 July 2024)

July, my mind swimming through the shimmering mirage of your heat, let me catch your phrases in the crude net of my pages. Reel you in with the nib of my pen.

Some things have happened.

I made final revisions on the draft of an essay going into an anthology later this year and completed the first draft of another essay that hasn't been pitched or submitted anywhere just yet. There's something about this kernel and koan that wants to be in a gooey, undefined gestation for a longer period. I've been taking my time exploring its properties, what inferences can be made, what comparisons come up. Is there an echo? What is the vocabulary? What is the flavor profile? The bouquet? What key am I in? What is the tone? What is the tempo? Is there a ghost here (the answer to this is almost always yes)?

I sent these pages to my writing group and don't want to tinker with anything until after they give me their impressions and insights. I've been in the post-first draft void and I love it here, this empty space of possibility. I know my beloved writing group's first impressions will help me make decisions about how to realize the vision of this piece. They'll help me decide what to cut and what to keep: which themes and images belong elsewhere; which need more meat on the bone to clarify the imagery, contextualize the movement, deepen the meaning. I know the discussion will refuel my energy for the revision process. Once I meet with them, hear their suggestions, and make the next round of edits I'll then send the piece to my agent. I love being a channel through which ideas pass, gathering and shedding information as they eddy and swirl on the way to the mindscape of other artists, writers, and readers. These are forms of prayer, and in the stillness the new iterations of the idea can arise. We are collaborating on a becoming.

In the midst of this month's word sculpting, there was another form of change showing itself. This one as a portal opening, inviting another love of mine to transform. My sweet dog Lila, the heart of my family, the Charmer of the Day as my children called her, too began to shimmer in July's oppressive atmosphere. Her 15-year old body listed from one side of the portal to another, unknowable place. She collapsed several times on her daily walk, her once-muscular lab/pit body puddling into a mass of soft fur and pointy bones. My ex-husband carried her along Queens Boulevard, calling me to come back even though I had just left them the night before. The vet diagnosed her with congestive heart failure.

I sat beside her, looked her in the eyes and repeated mantras of love and gratitude. I kissed her head and rubbed her body, feeling the labor of her breathing in and release, as she panted herself from my gaze to the mystery.

Is there a ghost here? The answer to this is almost always yes.

Lila, a black and brown pit bull lab hound mutt, in a NASA space suit floating through a galaxy. The caption on the photo reads: Galactic Center 26,000 light-years from Earth, a bright star cluster at the center of our galaxy is revealed by NASA's Spitzer Space Telescope

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