Of Topogrophy and Meteorology, or, The Ponderer Pondered

I am sitting down now with a cup of hot tea.  This is the first time in nearly a month I have been able to sit and write. It is the first time in nearly a month I have been able to really sit and really think.

A month is a significant period of time.  It is long enough to break bad habits, ruin good ones, or start new ones. I have done all three.

Typing, typing…I am merely typing.  But in it I am transcribing, listing, scribbling, inscribing, denoting, annotating, and meaning. I want to write down all of the things I mean and mean all of the things I write.  I want to write meaningful things.  The surge of connotation is almost too much, and I am at risk of burning myself out, of over-consuming the fuel of thought, of sputtering to a halt in the middle of a desert.

Refocus.

I do not want to drift endlessly in this sea of chaos of mind.  I long for the stillness, for the quiet place, for the darkness and stillness and quiet that is found under stones and beneath tree roots…deeper than the hearts of mountains.

I close my eyes and I pray.

Come find me here.  Grasp my spinning heart, and force it to stand still. Come into the caverns of my soul and open all of my doors, fling them wide; let in sky and clouds and sunlight.  Hold me close to your eye and examine me, deep within the palm of your hand, so close I can feel your breath upon my body as you ponder, ponder, mind of ages.

Stand at the bow of your ship and speak calm into the raging sea of my soul.

Ask me why I am afraid…

I want to tell you.

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One response to “Of Topogrophy and Meteorology, or, The Ponderer Pondered

  • wordorgy

    Deep under roots, in soil under trees, cool and wet and thick with earthy must. I understand this longing. For me, rather, right now I’d prefer to sit with the likes of you somewhere smoky, warm, and not quiet but loud enough for thoughts and happy enough for drinks.

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