In the early morning

I bought a book of poetry called Fire in the Earth a couple of days ago and just this morning, awake too early, I remembered it was in my backpack – the spine still uncracked. I’m a new fan of David Whyte after stumbling across his poetry last week. I’ve said it many times, but for some reason the words of others – whether in music, poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and sometimes even scripture – speak to me.

After I bought the book, I was talking to a friend, trying to explain why I liked it. I said, “Somehow, for some reason, when I read beautiful words that someone else has written or spoken or sung it gives me more words. It’s not like their words take the place of mine or fill in blanks for me when I can’t speak (does that ever happen?!?); rather, their words sink into my mind and heart in ways that enable more and different words to come forth from me.”

I think that’s how I process: I take in the thoughts of others and thereby have new thoughts of my own; new ways to articulate my own feelings and expressions of truth. Maybe stillness and quiet and meditative processes would be helpful: just space and time to sit with my own thoughts. I don’t know. Maybe. But at least today, the “sound” of David Whyte’s words speak. And in so doing, I am offered new words of my own to speak.

In the early morning
(s)he listens by the window
makes
the first utterance
and tries to overhear
(her)self
say something
from which
in that silence
it is impossible to retreat.

from The Poet, David Whyte (Fire in the Earth)

These words, at least to me, say what I (hope I) just said: I want to overhear myself say something from which it is impossible to retreat. I want to hear my own truth. I want to do my own truth-telling (thus the name of this blog!). I want truth to both expose and console, to enlighten and comfort, to name and question.

In the early morning…

It’s Saturday, just after 8. The dog’s been out, Abby’s up and watching cartoons, Emma is still asleep but probably not for long. The din of the day descends. In the midst of the din in my own mind and heart, the words of this poem offer me my own words/silence. I don’t want to retreat.

In the early morning…

What will I overhear in my own heart this day?

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