The past week has been feeling the strain of the growing season. I’ve done poetry performances 3 times in the past week, and I’m tired. Gratified. Challenged. Poetry plays the part of Himalayan Blackberries right now. Invades my life with it’s fleshy thorns, takes root in the space I need for other pursuits, yet produces such tasty and abundant fruit.
I ventured down to Portland this past weekend, booked a bed in the Hostel on 18th and Glisan. Celebrated a friend’s birthday with that which is uplifting and thought provoking. I think the highlights were in the conversations I had around town, the affirmation that I am learning something in the way of subcellular biology and mycological trivia that I can share with those I cross paths with despite the fact I feel under accomplished. Perspective is valuable.
Also, I ventured into the Chinese Garden, I was told how poetry is one of the most revered arts for the Chinese scholars of past. Each part of the garden pays careful attention to symbolism and aesthetics, and it acts as quite a bit of a portal for shifting the mind about. (Thanks to The Lost Art of Hitchhiking, I was inspired to visit.)
I am at a tired time, where feelings are getting dredged up from the depths, and my poetry is finally feeling welcomed into the world. It’s been chilly with transient sun before now, and there is still time before spring arrives. I’ve felt as if my veins were pumping poison, and perhaps as if I were inhaling ether or Carbon Dioxide (which was only the reality of Thursday’s benzoic acid synthesis). I simply am finally acknowledging the fact I’ve run into another sinus infection, and now it is time to pull inwards and heal myself with rest.