Another slow-waking 6 a.m. morning--my last one, as T will be home this evening and tomorrow we'll return to the usual 5 o'clock alarm.
Yesterday's class went well; it's funny how close people can get, after just two days in a virtual space. You'd think it would be impossible to create community that way, but it isn't. And then, in the evening my neighbor and I walked down to Woodford's Corner, and we sat outside in the cooling air and ate tacos and mused over our jobs and what books we were were reading. A different sort of community, and a pleasant ending to a sweet but brain-tiring weekend.
Today I'm still feeling an atmosphere of Rilke around me, a mysterious signpost looming out of the mist. But I also have a desk full of other people's manuscripts, grocery shopping to get done, a day filled with non-Rilkean rubble and weeds. The question is How can I live both lives?
3 comments:
I have been pondering your post, partially because my life has definitely taken a different turn than I would have imagined. Your final question is somehow answered by earlier observations: What is the collective tissue that binds disparate people? What is the inner chord that Rilke somehow creates -- what was the word, phrase, question to which people connected -- sort of like how a crowd will find a common harmonic chord when chanting? And, finally, what is the word that comes to mind when thinking about the connection between all the seemingly different parts of an individual's life (housework, money work, personal work, husband and family, etc.)? A word immediately came to mind when thinking about mine, and it wasn't what I was expecting (but may make the uncomfortable bits more palatable : )
I am presently listening to Jimmy Cliff's "Many Rivers to Cross," which seems to be offering another version of answer.
Hmmmm . . . the key is to find the bridge. There is always a bridge. And other hands are waiting to reach out.
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