Oh, I am out of breath in this fond chase.
The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace.
~ Helena, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
In great deeds, something abides. On great fields something stays. Forms change and
pass; bodies disappear, but spirits linger, to consecrate ground for the vision-place of souls.
And reverent men and women from afar, and generations that know us not and that we
know not of, heart-drawn to see where and by whom great things were suffered and
done for them, shall come to this deathless field to ponder and dream; And lo!
the shadow of a mighty presence shall wrap them in its bosom,
and the power of the vision pass into their souls.
I spent the afternoon before I gave my first poetry reading drinking wine in an outdoor café in Santa Fe. Although I’d set aside the time as a sort of toast to my two years of grad school, although I instagrammed a glow-y shot of the wine and my manuscript and the robin’s egg sky (#nofilter), I was miserable.
Every morning, I array my tools — lotions, liquids, powders, brushes. I darken my eyes, shadow and line. Some days I sing softly, some days I work in steely silence. I call it my war paint. The ordeal is part of my ritual, the morning routine that separates my time at home to my time in the real world. The shower, the clothes, the meditative time standing over the stove — all a liminal time between those two worlds.