Not I Alone"A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all."
(Annie Dillard, in The Writing Life)
What is it that I alone love at all?
Maybe the fact that here is here and
there is there, even the vast difference between
life inside and life outside, the separation by only a pane of glass.
Perhaps the obscure corner, the very cornerness of corners,
the vantage point they offer on life, the
fact that they have our back.
The shape of a word, its sound in my mouth, not
only its height and width but it depth, its
roundness, its shapeliness, the way its sound hangs in the air.
Maybe the particular slant of sunlight through the window,
the universe of dust revealed in its glare, the
thought of what worlds I am breathing in.
Perhaps the hope that memories of yesterday,
redeemed and shorn of all that is hurtful, will
live on in heightened color, sound, and smell in eternity.
The sound of the library, the aroma of its bindings,
the hope of new discoveries, the smile of 7-year old Betsy Pendergraph,
the sound of God walking among the words, His words, His world.
But then, maybe you love this too. Maybe it's not mine alone.