Learning to Enjoy The Ride

My desk sits before a four foot window in the basement, looking out at five feet of corrugated iron that makes a window well. Spiders are active spinners this time of year, and have found this protected place perfect for their thin webs, unbothered by a roaming dog or the inevitable Bocce games of a late summer's evening. The breeze still moves through here, stretching each web, pulling its inhabitant back and forth like slow breath.

And so I set about each day, spinning my own stories in this unbothered place, hoping that the thin filaments of my ideas can bear the weight of the words I hope to catch. I sit still here, me and my arachnid companions, each of us vigilant for what we know unexpectedly will arrive.

Two nights ago a thunderstorm hovered above the house, pouring its energies downward, clearing the window well of everything but wetness. The next morning each spider not busy climbing back up a spout was once again spinning, creating a space to catch what might come their way, what they knew they needed to sustain themselves.

Finding poetry is something that happens by intentional chance. And so I continue to spin, learning readiness in the most unlikely of places. I get writer's block. I feel fear and doubt and other things I need, but that overwhelm me. I touch dark places, and places pulsing with light. And when the breeze blows, I hang on tightly as this world breathes on me, learning to enjoy the ride.