where the writers are
Blue Cheese Moon

Crescent moon hangs over the field to the south of this house and if I dared to run down and climb over the walls and brambles I might be able to reach up and touch it. I imagine how it might feel on my palms. Would it crumble like a thin-veined blue cheese or coat my skin like almond paste, the kind my mother shaped on Christmas cakes all those years ago? This thought passes quickly because when I go to the window to check and see if the moon is yellow or white, it is gone, far away from my mind and lost in laundry folding and tomorrow's class.

Everything is fleeting. Pages flicked through. A son doing his science study for an exam. The remnants from the meal thrown in the bin. Even by this weekend, the Sumac tree will be semi-naked and I will wonder where the leaves went to. Nothing lasts.

Downstairs the phone rings and I do not run to answer it. The ring recedes. I keep writing but already have forgotten what it is that I set out to write. No one sees me at this desk and no one really cares. Two dogs wait for my attention and a book full of recipes requires my perusal. I have to keep that in mind.

Ten steps from me my son bends to his life. Words fall out of the page and rise up at him or hang in the air like a moon suspended, full of promise, like a bait that keeps him going. Don't look from the page for a minute because if you do it will be gone, like the moon and I wonder if I saw it, that moon at all or did I imagine how the moon would be, cheese, paste, milky substance floating like a dream beyond the window and nothing before it or nothing beyond only a gift that in its impermanence that called me to stop and want for more or nothing more.

Comments
18 Comment count
Comment Bubble Tip

There is only now

Mary, I am stunned by your ability to convey the loss of the current moment and all the actions, thoughts and tenuous, temporary things it contains.

Beautiful work.

Jules

Comment Bubble Tip

Thank you so much Jules.

Thank you so much Jules. Your words matter a great deal to me. m

Comment Bubble Tip

Like a flashlight (torch)

Like a flashlight (torch) shining just at the ground in front of your feet and the rest of the night dark all around you, life is just there in that spot.

Odd thing is, I start out writing an idea out, stop, check on you and other's posts and find we are usually writing about the same thing on the same day. Impermanence today, love tomorrow, and who can say what after that?

Cheers,
Christine

Comment Bubble Tip

Yes Christine, we are

Yes Christine, we are kindred souls on the same path, the same moon hangs beyond our window, the same ink flows from our pens. best, m

Comment Bubble Tip

Mary, your wistful post

Mary, your wistful post reminds me of the Blake verse:

"He who binds himself to a joy
Doth the winged life destroy.
He who kisses the joy as it flies,
Lives in eternity's sunrise."

It may be a simple thought, but it's powerful stuff in practice!

Comment Bubble Tip

What a lovely gift to find

What a lovely gift to find today from you Rosy Cole - it validates all that I am and wish to be. Thank you for that and I hope that you are well. best from Eire. m

Comment Bubble Tip

In the moment.

Oh, Mary. I was able to have internet this morning, and the first thing I did was scan RR for your picture in front of the turf. Hoping - so hoping you would have written something.
And there you are - talking about the moon.
Last night as I gazed into the Africa sky, I was counting stars and looking for the moon. There is something comforting about the changing moon. Perhaps just that - it changes, but it is there.
I didn't see it. It was hiding behind clouds. But I found the North Star, and took solace in knowing there was still a constant in the sky...and a promise of a moon.

I'm so grateful for your words.
Thank you...

Comment Bubble Tip

You come to mind often

You come to mind often Sharon and I wonder how life is for you in Africa. I might be driving or in the grocery store or peeling potatoes and you will come to me and I only wish you all that is good and I know how it is a major move in your life but one that will surely enhance the sparkle of the diamond that you are. mx

Comment Bubble Tip

How nice

to know that you think of me...I never eat - or cook that I don't think of you. And truly your writing has revolutionized mine.

Thank you, Mary.

Comment Bubble Tip

In the moment.

Sorry I must have hit submit twice.

Comment Bubble Tip

Hi

Splendid.As usual from you Mary.Best.

Comment Bubble Tip

Dr. J! I wondered about you

Dr. J! I wondered about you just as I woke up the other morning and when I opened my Red Room there you were. Need I say more! marsx

Comment Bubble Tip

Touching Post...

As always. Jules analyzed it so accurately. I very much liked knowing that Sharon was looking up at her African sky as we all looked up at our individual but yet same sky.

Comment Bubble Tip

Sue, yes, our skies are

Sue, yes, our skies are individual at any given time and yet we are all gathered beneath, looking up and dreaming and gauging the time as it passes and it gives me solace to know you are there, watching, writing, thinking, loving and taking the time to leave me such a lovely note. mx

Comment Bubble Tip

Mary, truly beautiful

Mary, truly beautiful thinking put down on paper so eloquently. Oh, yes, the exquisite impermanence of all things reminds me to savor fleeting moments and revel in the beauty of relationships as I’m touched by friends in far off places through bits and bites (I don’t mean bytes), and then there’s acknowledging the simple fact that billions of mysterious beings share the moon...

Comment Bubble Tip

So lovely to see you Lynn

So lovely to see you Lynn and thank you for your kind words. I am not on Red Room as often as I would like to be because time has become an issue. I hope you are well and writing up a fierce storm. best, mx

Comment Bubble Tip

Waning and wanting

The waning and the wanting are here within your words, Mary, lovely and lonely words that themselves are the permanence we all seek.
You write with truth, dear friend, until you write “nothing lasts.” Not true --- your words last, Mary. Of that there is no doubt.
They are not lost in the folds of the laundry, nor littered as the leaves on the ground, but embraced within the hearts of your readers. Mx

Comment Bubble Tip

Ah my Maine friend, you read

Ah my Maine friend, you read me like a book - and even though some of the pages have lost their zeal I am happy to hear they still convey the basic message. Now you are one true artist. best thoughts from a place where the moon falls through the window,mx