A stack of sycamore leaves

One. Three entire days into writer/artist life and my perceptions go slant or too artful for ordinary wear. Like thinking it a good idea to structure this post like this.

Two. My alarm woke me in the middle of a spitting rage. I was dreaming, and thought at the time I’d tell the dream but now I’m not going to. More importantly, in my waiting to fully awaken I decided my dream was me angry at me for going around behind me reworking the things I’d already gotten done.

I admit, fretting gives me something to do and focus on where silence does not. Sigh. I’ll give not-reworking my frets a spin. See where it takes me. After all, I keep turning around to silence this Glen-week, and that much repetition should carry weight.

Three: I’ve been losing myself today. And not my usual way–lost-myself-in-a-book way.

I lost myself after I woke up, then found myself in the shower. Which was supposed to be on Thursday, not Wednesday-which-is.

I lost myself after breakfast while straightening my clothes–my belongings were at the other end of the hall and down the stairs on the table. No, they were waiting for me in the anteroom, where I’d carefully brought them.

I could be so busy absorbing everything around me that I’ve stopped being present to my physical self; after all, that’s a thing that I’m known to do. But I didn’t notice myself Thinking Big Thoughts those times. More like my brain had gone off and left my soul and body here at St. John’s.

Four. I took an extra session today, which was GREAT and contained this bit for everyone to use: Pray poems.

Malcom Guite, our instructor, gave three intriguing exercises spinning off from that directive, along with three compelling poems to read (you should read them!). But I don’t have the heart-energy or time to share the poems with you, or work on one of the exercises the way I’d hoped. Well, okay, have one of the poems: Station Island XI by Seamus Heaney. But you’ll have to listen to Malcom reading it instead of reading it for yourself.

Five. Today seems to be the heart-sad day, the day when it’s easy to tell myself I’m alone here when “everyone else” has buddies, cronies, people to hang out with. In real life, I have been accumulating friends as well. Then I contrast these friends, all three days old and red-wrinkly, with other connections I see/hear that have the continuity of time: “Remember when?” “Are you still?” I’m tired; the experiences here are intense and therefore tiring. But/therefore, today I’m lonely.

Six. Here are six flat-palm leaves, dried and dropped from the Mexican sycamore in my backyard because the days are too hot in a row and the tree is fussing.

They’re yellow-brown, like the cover of one of the books I bought. Maybe these leaves make crunching noises when you read them?

Mexican sycamore leaf, with hand for scale

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