Walked out of a postcard writing event into a balmy mid-March evening. Sky light with a pinkish gray, high and cool, clouds drifting off absentmindedly. Buds in the trees, green in the grass. Felt a pull, a sweetness. In the air, in me. Old springs stirring in me. Made me sad and a little afraid. Bittersweet. Hard to take comfort in the beauty of nature when you know that we’re wrenching it out of alignment, destroying the rhythm that’s kept things going for thousands of years. And a little twinge of something I once would have called spirit. I can do without the anthropomorphizing that even the most abstract religions impose on life. But I didn’t want to reject that feeling. Looked up, and there was a tree reaching for the light, its bare branches bud-tipped, arced in a palmate skeleton, spreading and branching and converging again at the tips like an abstract vase. Form: now there’s something I can reverence. Especially form that emerges unthinking from unplanned processes. A thing in which I can recognize myself, and something alien, and something greater, and far too other to receive my paltry projections, for which I am profoundly grateful.
Asked recently what one word I might use to convey what’s important to me about literature, I immediately said “form.” Continue reading