this one is my own

Legacy

Like a tidal wave,
emotion surges,
slams against a wall of disbelief,
halts,
momentarily suspended.

Submerged in childhood narrative,
she remembers.
She, the child. Them, the mothers.
Sweet, broken women.
Earth’s heartache,
Heaven’s mercy.

Against so great a torrent,
she has no control.
Barrier breaks,
floods fall.
Powerful. Intense.
Containless.

Immersed in dreams unrealized,
she grieves.
Them, the child. She, the mother.
Redeemed, broken woman.
Earth’s heartache,
Heaven’s mercy.

Waters recede.

from bird by bird, by Anne Lamott

Becoming a writer can also profoundly change your life as a reader. One reads with a deeper appreciation and concentration, knowing how hard writing is, especially how hard it is to make it look effortless. You begin to read with a writer's eyes. You focus in a new way. You study how someone portrays his or her version of things in a way that is new and bold and original. You notice how a writer paints in a mesmerizing character or era for you, without your having the sense of being given a whole lot of information, and when you realize how artfully this has happened, you may actually put the book down for a moment and savor it, just to taste it.

from The School of Essential Ingredients, by Erica Bauermeister

"That's wonderful," said Abuelita when Lillian recounted the story to her the next day. "You made [your mother] remember her life. Now she just needs to reach out to it. That recipe," Abuelita said in answer to Lillian's questioning face, "must be yours. But you will find it," she continued. "You are a cook. It's a gift from your mother."

     Lillian raised an eyebrow skeptically. Abuelita gazed at her, gently amused.

     "Sometimes, nina, our greatest gifts grow from what we are not given."

The Artist of God (in memory of Fae Malania, by Marly Youmans

(Fae Malania wrote a lovely little book called Quantity of a Hazlenut -- a collection of essays on life and faith. Malania's husband was an Episcopal priest, who helped to update the Book of Common Prayer (in the 1970s, I think). When Malania passed away a few years back, Books and Culture published this poem, written in her memory by Marly Youmans. I was already a Fae Malania fan, and fell in love with the poem right away.)

The litter of fallen leaves is ankle-deep
And all my words are black ants on the page.
What can I say that's worthy of a life?

Your tower of private dreaming is no more.
Your mouth stops open like a chorister's,
The mirrors go veiled, the window's propped ajar.

"Ineffable," my dictionary sings
As starlight gilds the larches of paradise.
You drink from a shining cup and are made whole.

No, your isle of blessings is not like that.
It is beyond all our imaginings.
The words pour through me and are lost in mist.

The world in time's a dark and thirsty place.
Dear friend, from Paradise-the-blest, will you
Fetch me one drop to cool my burning tongue?

on Psalm 23, by David Roper

God is articulate. He speaks to us through is Word. Meditate on His words until His thoughts begin to take shape in your mind ...
   When we read His Word we are reading His mind -- what He knows, what He feels, what He wants, what He enjoys, what He desires, what He loves, what He hates.

from Jane Eyre (#2), by Charlotte Bronte

"Do you ever laugh, Miss Eyre? Don't trouble yourself to answer -- I see, you laugh rarely; but you can laugh very merrily: believe me, you are not naturally austere, any more than I am naturally vicious. The Lowood constraint still clings to you somewhat; controlling your features, muffling your voice, and restricting your limbs, and you fear in the presence of a man and a brother."

by George Eliot

If we had keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence.