I wrote a poem and someone commented “Somewhere out there, Mary Oliver is smiling…” and that made me cry because she is my matron saint and so much a part of my literary and spiritual lineage. I felt so seen.

Someone who used to make me really uncomfortable and doubt myself and feel like I didn’t belong now has the exact opposite effect on me and I am shocked by the amount of tenderness I feel towards his curmudgeonliness now that I see it for what it is. He makes fun of me, because banter is his way of saying “You’re okay, kid”, and while he is in no way old enough to be my father, I have taken to thinking of him as one of my “Clay Daddies”.

Don’t tell him, though. He’d *HATE* it (while maybe secretly liking it?).

I am drinking coffee in my first hand warmer mug and feeling smug because I’ve got about eight more in progress. Harvestfest folks! I’M COMING FOR YOU!

I’m painting a thing for new moon in gemini that feels so good to paint. I’ve dropped down out of my head and into my body with this one and that is delicious. Also GOLD LEAF.

There is a steak the size of my head waiting for me to cook for dinner.

Walking down Central Ave is so weird now because someone I just met recently grew up on this street, and we had no way of knowing that, and it was such a surprise to feel how small the world is and how the universe conspires to put us in the way of beauty, and somehow, knowing that has anchored me here and made it feel even more like home.

The fact that the pottery studio is walking distance from my little nest feels like a Godswink and I am paying attention.

Did I mention Gold Leaf?

I’m writing again.

Your turn.
P.S. Speaking of Clay Daddies, this is another one. Watching him throw is like watching witchcraft in action.
P.S. The poem in question:

Not An Ode 

I once found
a bee on the
front step
all curled up
like the number nine,

like a question mark
or an ending,

dead at first glance
but upon closer inspection
(because I notice these things)
I saw Its wings shiver,
and its legs pump in the air.

You would have
stomped it without
a thought,
swept it off the step
like it was nothing

but I made a bee line
into the house to
sprinkle sugar
and drip water
on a spoon.

I tucked the rim of it
and all my hope
up under its

that is who I am.

is who I am.

If I do nothing else
of value in my life,
I’ll have done that.

P.S. The bee lived,
and so did I.

©E.B. Wild