"Taproot" of Happy Memory

If you're as old as I am, you may remember that phrase "of happy memory" as a churchy-speak way of referring to someone who has died.

Well, my "Taproot" blog hasn't died exactly--or if it did, it seems to have recently resurrected--but the fact is that the website couldn't be accessed for at least 36 hours, with no explanation.  And that doesn't make me feel good about trying to maintain my blog there. 

But I did kinda like what I had posted in my two posts.  So I thought I would re-post them here before shutting "Taproot" down for good.  So here goes:

TAPROOT POST #1:

Welcome to Taproot, my new blog. I’ll be writing about a variety of things, and I’ll be writing in a variety of formats. 

Sometimes you’ll find commentary on events or issues, sometimes meditations or reflections, sometimes poetry, sometimes personal-life updates. 

What my posts will have in common is that they will emerge from or touch on things that go deep in me–hence the name Taproot. 

Think of all the different parts of a tree that are supported by its taproot: thick, solid trunk that only grows thicker and more solid; scraggly bark that cracks and sometimes sheds as the tree grows; leaves that last through three of the four seasons, changing from delicate lime to robust deep green to fragile but brilliant; petals that may only last a week, but a glorious week. 

My posts will be as various, and as rooted, as that. Thank you in advance for your attention.

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NOTE:   I will not in fact be using the "Taproot" name any more, but the comments about the nature of the blog still stand.

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TAPROOT POST #2: titled "Two Poems Inspired by Clay"

owl slides
on silent wings
through velvet dark

all secrets lie exposed
to wide night-piercing eyes

small life
fearing the talon’s grasp
shelters in stillness

as owl slides
swiftly
silently
through velvet dark

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That one was written to go on the back of a clay owl I made in a kind of semi-Cycladic style. And the process of making the owl, then writing the poem, then inscribing it on the back of the owl, in turn, inspired me to write this poem:

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BEGINNING HANDBUILDING

The course fee includes twenty-five pounds of clay.
Choose white, brown, brown with speckles, or red.
This time, I choose white.

The white clay is actually gray when I get it,
and much softer than the brown I worked with last time.
Twenty-five pounds of soft, deeply still gray clay.

What does clay remember?
Does it remember being mountains,
before water and dissolved chemicals wore it down?
Does it remember pronghorns leaping on its crags,
eagles nesting and soaring,
climbers scrabbling for finger and toe holds?

Or were those memories dissolved too
by the slowly seeping water,
the slightly acid water,
that broke the mountains down
into particles far tinier than sand grains?

Does clay remember slowly drifting in the water,
slowly slowly drifting,
slowly settling down out of the water,
slowly nestling, tiny particle with tiny particle,
into a deep still bed?
Does clay remember the dreamy drifting,
the slow settling?

I sit and stare at the clay,
so still, so deeply inert.
Who am I to disturb so deep a rest?

But maybe it isn’t inertia.

Maybe it’s something else altogether
deep availability
what the venerable Basque sage would call “disponibility.”
“You called? Here I am.”

With my hands, I make a suggestion.
Clay responds,
accepting part of my suggestion,
and making some suggestions of its own.

And so the conversation begins.

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Wrote that one today [ed.: ie, April 25, date of the original post]. The “venerable Basque sage” reference is to Ignatius of Loyola, who had much to say about letting go of attachments so as to reach a state of “disponibility” or complete availability to God.

Here's a process picture of the owl: