Let me tell you a story.

Before I turned the page to girlhood, I had grown to love the heavens. I would watch the stars come out, and gaze with longing eyes up at the moon. A great craggy, silver coin just beyond my reach, and oh, how I wanted it. I built a rocket with swift little fingers, folding cardboard inserts next to the engine container so it could fly-- fly-- like I have always craved, and regally descend, floating on a striped parachute of grace. I read books about white-suited heroes in sterile space. They were so far removed from earth that nothing could touch them. It was all white, clean and aloof, like a symbol of purity steadily streaming on heaven’s grounds. I used to need things and feelings to be white and clean, like Maud says in Possession,

“I have this vision of a clean white bed.”

The stars were just great shimmering jewels of white heat so far above me, and you couldn’t touch them. It was allure--no, it was more than mere enticement. It was not mine, and it never would be, and oh, how I wanted it. Because it didn’t want me, you see. It was impassive. And I would sit out until ten or so on wet Saturday evenings, my cheek pressed against the shivered blades of grass, and wait for the stars to come out.

But there are clouds in Oregon at night when I grew up, and they dull the clarity with grey strokes. Fog unrolls from sloping hills and creeps in, wraith-like, as a misty spirit bent on obstruction.

So I stopped watching, and learned to love the flowers and the warmth of the light against the back of my neck. The Lady can reach Camelot in these times, you know. She does not have to float, barren in her lily-whiteness, along the shuddering bank of river. And there are goldenrods growing in the fields by that deep river, an azure canvas for little teardrops of gold from heaven.

I cannot come in white now. Time has prevented us from laying bare our works of progress in untitled form. Because if I ask You to paint me, dab roses and pansies and make me worthy of Your sonnets, it would merely be illusion. We don’t believe in untruths any longer. I have no desire, at any rate, to be Your creature. There are solitary paths to take and refuges to hide in. We gather herbs and flowers, grind them, and paint ourselves like courtesans.

So where’s the story gone, you ask, from the twisting paths of mossy ground? Is it best to ‘come in white’ or learn to colour your own soul? To stay at the hearth’s home or to wander on clouded terraces?

We learn to look down from the stars, and know that there is no ending, just a beginning shrouded in the mist that falls from the mountain.

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble, it's a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantement, it is as perrenial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, do not doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore, be at peace with God, whatever you conceive him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

--Desiderata, by Max Ehrmann.

Words were my first love-- my faithful friend-- my tender helper. I cannot remember a time when they flew from me, birds inked in perpetual flight across my pages. Words, flowing together in calligraphic stories that drew me in with the allure of music. I lust after new words too blindly, like kisses from the mouth of a new lover. They glitter like jeweled shells on the rocky shore, shimmering for me-- only me, the humble little poet who sees tiaras among the rubbishy stones. They convey so much, our friends, and speak for the heart that would otherwise cry blindly into the unknown.

Why aren't they loved as they deserve? Why does our culture turn to the cold, slick images of the screen and leave the sweet nuances of print to dust? There's some divine sweetness that only writers hold with their words, some beautiful sense of purpose for the stories they may tell. And then we hear the stories through the medium of words, and let it beat in our souls, flowing through our veins like ice water, clear through the passage of hot blood.

Sometimes I dream of a white room, with wooden floors that gleam in the sunlight, and shelves and shelves of books. And I can see it-- that's the gift of writing that was lain before me, to paint with those pearled words that I crush for my pigments. Wide, sweeping brushes of life and living, and then I don't think it matters at all if I am published, if I ever find fame for my miniatures. No, in those moments I know that I am truly a poet.

And that is enough.