This morning over coffee, my husband and I worry over his mother's health.
One thread leads to another and mothers are on my mind.
Washing dishes, I think of my mother and how her voice, when she telephoned, strained for light. I've heard the same searching tone in a friend lately. Her mother passed away and her days have turned slow and dark. Last year, another friend lost her mother abruptly.
At the kitchen counter, I wipe up crumbs and jot a line. Fold laundry, jot another. I feel the zing of ideas swirling, words forming. The physical act of writing, combined with the mental and emotional rush of words, creates an adrenalin faith. Words rise and bubble, catch air, gasp for more, multiply.
I don't know if a poem will arise from these disconnected places but I am forever grateful for the process, for the reverent way words form an altar of hope.