New and Renew

I expect leaky faucets, blustery nights, loss, and disappointment. I also await robins, a rose-breasted titmouse, a family of goldfinches. A woman with teenage daughters died in my community this week--someone I didn't know well. An earthquake in Christchurch, New Zealand tumbled buildings, collapsing on students, workers, passersby. My daughter was in the town when it happened but she was unharmed. A close brush with a catastrophic event can be life-altering. I trust that light will return, gaudy and generous. Even now there are signs--tufts of trampled grass and patches of mineral-rich soil. In teaching, I find the writing that moves me. In writing, I renew my voice. A residency I applied for prefers emerging writers and my writer and collaborator Geraldine said, aren't all writers emerging? If we have crossed over from emerging to established, do we become complacent? Looking at the world--ugliness and badly behaviored politicians and drivers, then sudden loveliness--a child chasing a leaf, the smell of new earth after a rain--language seems unruly--something I must learn anew. I hope to emerge again and again, awash in language and sense.