Let us go then you and I, out into the star strewn sky like a patient etherized on a table. Oh do not stop to ask what is it, let us go and make our visit! — TS Eliot
My garden is overrun with weeds – both those known and those pernicious flowers and plants that will hijack a bed without constant vigilance – my horse is fat and lazy in the August heat, and my vigilance knows one direction.
It is my oldest and most preferred addiction. The reason I began this blog some five years ago, to find a voice and a self within the six minute increments. But that was then, and now, I have found myself a new purpose in this practice.
I write poems and travel, city to city, client to client, depo to depo, and somewhere in between the shadow and the soul, I find new meaning.
I dare not abandon my roses, the eldest approaching 120 years old, but the nice young men who cut my lawn are happy to make a little extra money taming some of the beasts.
Mr. Bojangles doesn’t mind the time off and still, despite my constant dash for this airport or that hotel, this drive, that meeting, we still jump and sing and have our moments.
I watch my work become a vocation, and all of my Catholic/Jewish roots tingle in the knowledge that I can do some good here.
And still, I find new parts of me, between the lines.
The trick, I must believe there is a trick, always there is a trick, is seeing the adventure. I’ve been practically everywhere, gypsy childhood on the road, but always there is a new restaurant, a new road, a new friend.
A new sketchbook filled with old buildings and new skyscrapers.
And there are poems, songs of Middle America, all of which exist between the lines, between the notes, I will say of a particularly skilled pianist.
Life is short and hard, but it is also sweet, sings la merchant.
I work and I discover that when they finally let you do the things you were meant to do, there is no measuring in six minutes. No measuring in sad Prufrockian coffee spoons.
There is adventure.
And for me, often terror, for I take what I do so seriously. The duty. The burden. But even on this long, hard days, I will pause, fingers groping for some charcoal to draw this life in suburbia (already apologizing to my dry cleaner as I beg her to make some black smudge disappear from my black and white skirt) and think …
Let us go then.
And see what wonders we might find.
Perhaps not precisely life OUTSIDE of law these days.
Instead, a new adventure.
Life between the lines.
Which any poet will tell you, is where the best ideas reside.