God and Poetry
“But I don't want comfort.
I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom,I want goodness. I want sin.”
Taking my cue from Aldous Huxley, I have up-ended my life, shaken off the familiar, and entered the world of traffic and trains and quaint little houses down the lane. Forgive me for being a bit metaphysical, but it seems, after an exhaustive search for a new place to live, this is where I was meant to be. Whether my reasoning is the stuff born of rationalization or the magic of a mystic cosmos remains to be seen, but after Greg and I watched the possibility of four different mountain houses we wanted and loved appear then disappear against all reason, we landed on what I am, in an effort to preserve some sense of wildness, calling the prairie. There’s a garden and spruce and aspen and lots and lots of trees, but there’s also sidewalks and chain-link fences and neighbors within eye-shot, along with the sound of traffic on the highway.
To me, this is real danger.
I’ve long said my sensibility runs toward silence and space. And I’ve spent a decade living on top of a mountain by myself, cultivating what I’ve called my cowgrrl ethos. What this means, I suppose, is that I have learned to do things for myself: split wood, heat a cabin at 8500 feet in winter, contend with bears and fox, battle the yearly onslaught of mice, live just beyond the easy reach of modern conveniences, meet each day and weather pattern on its own terms---and be lonely. Friends and acquaintances have long wondered aloud about what they think are extraordinary circumstances, but to me, the setting was comfort. I have found a certain sense of safety in inhabiting the perimeter.
In moving out of the mountains and in with Greg, I have left that all behind. Yet, I have the sense of the world calling my name; maybe it’s time see a different face of God.
A good poem is deceptively simple too. You look at lines leaving an inelegant curve against a white page, but the reading of the words, the journey through the poem leads to a lovely elsewhere not first evident.
Today I am thinking of the poetry of pizza.
It’s the first thing I served the then city-dwelling boyfriend after nearly two weeks of dreamy early morning emails and long, late night phone calls. In those days, the world felt as big as the night sky full of stars, and we were at the center of it. I’ve made the two pizzas we shared that first night—a classic Margherita and one with Gorgonzola and apples—dozens of times as a way for us to celebrate, mark the passage of time, remember, and show love.