Virginia Woolf, famous for reminding women that they should have a room of their own in which to write, also said:
“So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.”
I’ve had several “rooms of my own” over the years. And today, as another October comes to an end, I remember one in particular.
Faith
There are some early fall mornings
When the lake disappears behind a white fog wall.
I look out the porch window and see the deck
Drop off towards nothingness.
My little summer world becomes even smaller.
I’m locked inside my tiny house, my 25 x 50 foot lot,
And all I see are one birch tree and one Tamarack
On either side of that deck
Leading to nothing.
I know the lake is really there.
It was yesterday, wasn’t it?
And on the other side,
Someone else is blocked in like I am,
In a tiny, personal world.
But instead of feeling cut off and alone,
I actually feel surrounded and warm,
Held softly within this white mist wall.
A respite while my soul does not question what I truly believe.
09/2005
Comments