I struggle with trying to put the words together, the ones that I think will paint what I see. I'm never really satisfied with my attempts, and usually settle for words that don't satisfy, or relegate the thing I wanted to share to my own memory and/or my gratitude list.
Yesterday, as we sat by the fire during a snow day, I was reading Billy Collins (who I really enjoy for the images he creates and the way he makes poetry about everyday life). In his poem "Night Letter to the Reader", Collins describes getting up in the middle of the night and walking outside to cure his insomnia. He says this:
and there was something else I wanted to tell you,
something about the warm orange light
in the windows of the house,
but now I am wondering if you are even listening
and why I bother to tell you these things
that will never make a difference,
flecks of ash, tiny chips of ice.
But this is all I want to do --
tell you that up in the woods
a few night birds were calling,
the grass was cold and wet on my bare feet,
and that at one point, the moon,
looking like the top of Shakespeare's
appeared, quite unexpectedly,
illuminating a band of moving clouds.
That is why I want to blog and keep track of the things I see and the things I think. I disagree with Collins on the point that these things don't matter; they matter because they communicate the ways the Father is pouring out His grace all the time.
I wish I had better words, better ways of telling you (and telling myself) the things that I see. I'll keep trying.