Or righting, the heart — well written. A decade ago, when my youngest brother was killed, the idea of working in, working round and walking into the grief was done with writing. That time, every day, the journal working into the impressions of my feeling — and those around me.

Today, walking I found this piece of old, handmade paper — made and hung in a tree as a reminding of the practice that I hold dear.


As I move into decades of writing, I find myself (literally) in the transcription of what has gone before (seeing it again, transcribed) but I think as well of the metaphor of writing.

The stroke, the drawing of time, the mystery of the moment caught in the letters of the alphabet, transfixing the sensual sentiment of what’s happening, what has just occurred — or like now, the knowing of something that is past.

Seeing that piece of old paper — it, drawn by me, yet drawn in the strokes of time, one mystery on another, yet another joy that is gathered in the script of being; and there in the beginning, the first stroke of light, the Aleph, the alpha-bet, closing the loop on momentum in one scripted signature.

Seeing that one piece of paper, lying wet on the earth. Minding me, meaning me, memories of mine — all crossing as one tattered recollection, that is now fresh in my mind. Even the old calligraphic brush drawing — old, still holds the soul of the first intention.

One freshly washed stroke is the beginning of the idea, which instantly becomes a memory in the touch of the hand, the brush and the drag of wetted ink on stock — be it wood, stone, scrap or handmade paper from 100 years ago.

Write, on.

t | decatur island