full circle in the hundred acre wood

I awoke with a twilight image of standing beside a large, funnel-shaped hole lined with luminous white paper. A pleasing sight. I began tossing books into it, mostly old favorites.

The Devil’s Dictionary, by Ambrose Bierce

Man’s Search for Meaning, by Victor E. Frankl

The Alexandria Quartet, by Lawrence Durrell

On Becoming a Person, by Carl Rogers

Love Poems, by Anne Secton

Traveling Mercies, by Anne Lamott

The Farther Reaches of Human Nature, by Abraham H. Maslow

The Poetry of Robert Frost, (complete and unabridged)

Love and Will, by Rollo May

Complete Poems 1913-1962, e.e.cummings

Wake up! It’s not time to pack yet.

Yes, there is a contract on the house and a closing date set for July 1 and there is a gawdawful amount of work to be done packing hundreds of books and sheet-music and little tiny objects . . . but the mover’s representative only came this morning to give us an estimate and the Home Inspector doesn’t come until next Tuesday to about poking and prodding for three hours and let us all know if there is some mysterious show-stopping Defect that could kill the deal.

{sighing}  So much work, but all I can do at the moment is hurry up and wait . . . and read a marvelous poem:


unlove’s the heavenless hell and homeless home

of knowledgeable shadows (quick to seize

each nothing which all soulless wraiths proclaim

substance; all heartless spectres, happiness)

lovers alone wear sunlight. The whole truth

not hid by matter; not by mind revealed

(more than all dying life, all living death)

and never which has been or will be told

sings only – and all lovers are the song.

Here (only here) is freedom: always here

no then of winter equals now of spring:

but april’s day transcends november’s year

(eternity being so sans until

twice I have lived forever in a smile)


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