Two months in Denver, an entirely different environment. We bought a tall bottle of aloe lotion for our dry skin, we drink more water than usual, and we bundle up against the harsh winds with myriad-colored gloves and scarves.
Two months and Bailey is thriving! She leaps through the snow, her two-year-old puppy self perfectly happy as long as she's in motion! She's my example of adaptation. I watch her enthusiasm, unbound, immediate. Earlier while writing an email, I typed god instead of dog, and I am wondering how close I came to an unspoken suspicion. To forgive all manner of slights, to keep going no matter what you've been through, to leap into the unknown, these are holy qualities.
Two months of working, not writing. And now the freedom to write and the necessary silence all around me. It is going to take time to accept I really do have the time to ponder, to imagine, to expand my ideas outward. I think of writing residencies, how we all want that month to retreat into an atmosphere that expects little of us. But even this, especially this, the early morning quiet, the black dog at my side, the opportunity to make lists and jot down silenced dreams . . . this is more than I expected. And I am grateful.
My writing often deals with the environment, my poetry filled with allusions to natural and man-made disasters. I have unlimited hope though; there is just too much wonder in this world to become a defeatist. To quote Margaret J. Wheatley, '"Hopelessness has surprised me with patience."