Telling Our Stories
The fox came every evening
to my door asking nothing.
my fear trapped me inside,
hoping to dismiss her but
she sat till morning, waiting.
At dawn we would, each of us,
rise from our haunches,
look through the glass
then walk away.
Did she gather her village around
her and sing of the hairless moon face,
the trembling snout,
the ignorant eyes?
Child, i tell you now it was not
the animal blood i was hiding from,
it was the poet in her,
the poet and the terrible stories
she could tell.
— Lucille Clifton
I’m still writing retreat poems, thinking about all the work we did, all the areas we highlighted that we need to get moving on …
A big-picture brain
pulls me through.
The work is a strain —
it’s all I can do
to focus. I’m faced with a slew
of choices, of tasks,
I wonder where to start, whom to ask.
It surprises me how much work we get done on these retreats. Yes, we watched the sun rise. Yes, we took walks and watched the boats. Yes, we went out for fried clams. Yes, we had a mojito or two … But we also spent hours and hours talking, evaluating, articulating our vision for our programs, plotting out action steps. Lots o’ work.
Ok, but not everything was work. We discovered an excellent magazine in one of the inn’s room:
Really. And true to it’s name:
Rush out and get your subscription today!