Rice
It grew in the black mud.
It grew under the tiger’s orange paws.
Its stems thinner than candles, & as straight.
Its leaves like the feathers of egrets, but green.
The grains cresting, wanting to burst.
Oh, blood of tiger.
I don’t want you just to sit down at the table.
I don’t want you just to eat, & be content.
I want you to walk out into the fields
where the water is shining, & the rice is risen.
I want you to stand there, far from the white tablecloth.
I want you to fill your hands with the mud, like a blessing.
– Mary Oliver
I started college at the University of Montana when I was 26 – a single mom enrolled in the Creative Writing Program – out of my mind with joy. Nearly 20 years later, I overhear people in my Meditation meeting idly talking about Morning Pages, & the Artist’s Way – A Spiritual Path for Blocked Creatives.
I scramble up the ladder as fast as I can to the high dive & leap toward that tantalizing sparkle of light glinting up at me called art.
I have been somewhat unstoppable ever since. I move slow on one hand, & yet try to keep up on the other. Welcome to my world of books & color & the enormous feel & touch of words.
– Susan
