Friday Inspiration in Words

Photo Credit Kandy M. Christensen

Memories, Creativity, Teaching Sewing Lessons in Chicago and Poetry to Inspire. 

We have had a pretty heady and introspective week over here on Meandering Design. Reminiscing about food while creating new memories; talking about finding ones path; and facing our creative fears. While it may seem like we have not been doing much crafting- there has been a lot going on behind the scenes. I've finished up some scarves and skirts, but I'm waiting for a sunny day to take some photos. It's been quite grey here lately, but what else would I expect from the weather in Chicago in February. Sheska is on a tear making some amazing creations. I can't wait to see what she comes up with next. I've been doing last year's taxes. We have also been working on something new and exciting for Meandering Design, which we will be unveiling next week.  All in all a wonderful week. I can't wait to see what next week brings.

Today's inspiration is a little bit different and in keeping with my introspective mood. While I love all of the wonderful things I find online and I collect them a bit like a magpie I walked away from the computer and opened a book. Specifically, my Norton Anthology of Literature by Women from my undergraduate days. It was like meeting up with an old friend for coffee.

I have a fondness for May Sarton and Virginia Woolf and so today I bring you the poem Letter from Chicago, For Virginia Woolf by May Sarton.

"Four years ago I met your death here,
Heard it where I had never been before
In a city of departures, streets of wind,
Soft plumes of smoke dissolving--
City of departures beside an aloof lake.
Here, where you never were, they said,
"Virginia Woolf is dead."

The city died. I died in the city.
Witness of unreal tears, my own,
For experience involves time
And time was gone
The world arrested at the instant of death.
I wept wildly like a child
Who cannot give his present after all:
I met your death and did not recognize you.

Now you are dead four years
And there are no more private tears.
The city of departure is the city of arrival,
City of triumphant wind lifting people,
City of spring; yesterday I found you.
Whereever I looked was love.
Whereever I went I had presents in my hands.
Wherever I went I recognized you.

You are not, never to be again,
Never, never to be dead.
Never to be dead again in this city,
Never to be mourned again,
But to come back yearly,
Hourly, with the spring, with the wind,
Fresh as agony or resurrection;
A plume of smoke dissolving,
Remaking itself, never still,
Never static, never lost:
The place where time flows again.

I speak to you and meet my own life.
Is it to be poised as the lake beside the city,
Aloof, but given still to air and wind,
Detached from time, but always given to the moment--
Is it to be a celebration always?

I send you love forward into the past."


Originally Published 3/1/13

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