Morning. June 1, 2011
It is, indeed, morning again. The first day of the month when I was born.
A month, then, filled with reflection on where I've been in my life and where
I'm going. Have I lived in kindness? Have I eased a single twinge of the
pain this life sets upon anyone at all? Would the child I was even recognize
the woman I am?
Reflection isn't necessarily a follower of calendars. In fact, it is already
days old; came shuffling in with the last days of preparation for this month's
issue. In being close enough to the art of others; the photos and the work
that was given in the name of Lily. In this month's interview. In the bios
of the month's contributors; the snapshots of their lives that they shared
with their work.
And John says his life is reflected in his poetry. Marysia and Ariel are
out there in the world with their cameras, looking for moments to capture.
Bob is alive in a place that is drifting slowly even as he, himself, drifts
towards retirement. Gary made the world his classroom. And in a hundred years,
Parneshia Jones would stand in that classroom and tell the students there
to write what they know. What is close and important.
There is a darkness to this issue. There are moments captured here that require
a strength to take in. To hold. But there is so much beauty here too. So
much love. There is a way that the art and the descriptions of the artists
reflect us all. A song in this issue that, though unique with its every voice
and instrument, is all at once familiar.
I believe we are, each one of us, alive for the sake of these moments, of
capturing this moments. I believe we have been called to share them with
each other. We have been, as Jessy Randall so sweetly described, the children
whose geography works in a different way. The children who are so hot when
We have been. We are.
To this month's contributors and to all of those who offered their work for
consideration... To Indigo for his time, effort, concern and discernment...
To the person who is reading this at this very moment...
I can tell that there is a thin-legged little girl in a crooked haircut and
a yellow halter top. And once she cried for a butterfly, and once she wrote
a letter to the Ayatollah, asking him to set the hostages free.
And her hair sometimes has smelled like the sun. She has grown up imperfectly
and she's not sure sometimes that she can see herself in the woman she has
become. But when you sang, she heard your voice and she turned around. She
caught another beautiful breath. Lived another beautiful moment. Your song
is beautiful and she thanks you for it.
'Til next time.