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Dance of carrots

You awaken early, and you’re the only one up
Into the kitchen
Coffee
And you lean against the sink and watch darkness turning into light-
On the window sill, in a shallow dish of water, carrot ends,
Trimmed by the seller of their ragged greens,
Patiently growing new leaves –
“Carrot lettuce” they’re called
They will grow a few inches long and add spicy crispness to salads…

It doesn’t end, the darkness, only waiting beyond the light until the quiet of evening eases back in. And as for the carrots, they too refuse to end, beginning again and again, until you have harvested as many leaves as they care to present, and the little disks of orange sun soften and return to separate liquid cells.

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Almost empty mind

Recently in Prufrock’s Dilemma (http://prufrocksdilemma.wordpress.com/), Susan Scheid quoted A John Ashbery poem, “And Ut Pictura Poesis Is Her Name.” (Do you remember your Latin? Ut pictura poesis, literally, “As is painting so is poetry.”) The first section is about the creative process and is interesting in itself. But the last part, which Susan quoted, caught my attention and has stayed with me all week:

“The extreme austerity of an almost empty mind
Colliding with the lush, Rousseau-like foliage of its desire to communicate
Something between breaths, if only for the sake
Of others and their desire to understand you and desert you
For other centers of communication, so that understanding
May begin, and in doing so be undone.”

Who could overlook the image of lush, Rousseau-like foliage? Of course you cannot! It rushes at you, enmeshes you. And so all those paintings, generous in their jungle greenery, start springing through one’s memory. And yet… the extreme austerity of an almost empty mind is, for me, an even stronger experience, stronger because it is felt within, not seen without. And so, the visual that won out has not been Rousseau’s, but an imagined pond’s edge, waves coming to it and then leaving it. And that image has been bringing me repeated moments of freedom.

Contemplating the peacefulness of the empty, even almost empty, mind, the “desertion for other centers of communication” brings such a sensation of relief, having found that the “others” with their desire to understand were not the right persons with whom to share one’s self, after all. And with their abandonment comes release. The fickle waves approach the shore, sample it, and move on to other shores. A near miss!