such verses for my body let us write, (for we are one),
that should I after death invisibly return
or, long, long hence, in other spheres,
there to some group of mates the chants resuming
(tallying earth's soil, trees, winds, tumultuous waves,)
ever with pleas'd smile I may keep on,
ever and ever yet the verses owning --as, first, I here and now,
singing for soul and body, set them to my name
Walt Whitman, Inscriptions to Leaves of Grass,
I am in real danger of losing myself in the things that I love doing that I may become completely unreachable. Which is why I blog. It keeps me here, talking. Well, pretending to talk to someone, you. It forces me to try and make myself comprehensible, to use words where I may not be inclined to, dissolved and wordless as I can sometimes feel, when I'm lost in what I love.
And when at last I return to some humanly recognizable form, I find myself speaking, dare I say it (?), rather like a poet. And I feel compelled to immerse myself in the language of poetry for it seems to be the only one that I can understand or that understands me.
I could blame my soul. But why do I speak of blame, as if these episodes are harmful to me? They are not, but I find myself trying hard to convince myself of it.
The soul, after all, is a daemon, a guardian angel, a genius, who, more often than not has to cope with or stave off a world determined to rein it in, indignify it with its pathetically low standards. (Robert Zoller writes nicely about James Hillman's daemon here or, even better, go read James' book, The Soul's Code)
Oh,these are the times when my soul easily lures its body into some of the most beautiful rooms in the world like this one:
Image by hanzen_bucket