I write

This is finally a change I have awaited.  As is often the case with such things, I didn't know I was waiting for this particular change until it arrived.  But here it is.  Right in the middle of dizzying weather changes and learning to live with good brain/bad brain days.  Again I write.  And again I consider playing guitar again.

I write

More reflections on waiting

More reflections on watching

More reflections on paying attention

To the things I have missed

For months

Maybe even years.

I write again.

The days beg me

To write.

So I do.

The spring rain arrives

In the chill.

The seasons turn.

I turn.

I write because

The days simply beg me

To write.

So I do.

No callus

I believe we are always singing, somehow.  Perhaps it*s just the accompaniment that changes. 

In his collection of Bengali poems, Gitanjali, Rabindranath Tagore writes that the song he wanted to sing has never happened because he has spent his days 'stringing and unstringing' his instrument.

Source:  Joyce Rupp, OSM, May I Have This Dance?  (courtesy of Inward/Outward.org)

I played guitar for years.

Now it sits upstairs behind the chair.

Sometimes,

Not very often,

I pick it up.

My heart has things

It wants to express.

Of course the guitar

Is always

Out of tune.

Most of the time I spend

Getting it to a place

I can play

Again.

Then my fingers

Remind me,

I have not played

For years.

They have not retained

Their callus.

My fingers are soft.

The strings leave dents.

Still I sing.

I dreamed I bought a flute

In Iceland.

I planned to learn to play

On my way home.

I returned

Flute in hand.

I do not know the first thing

About flutes.

I imagine I play anyway.

I have a vivid imagination.

There is music

In my bones.

My heart has things

It wants to express.

There is music

In my heart.

Still no callus

On my fingers.