where the writers are

I’m no sure what I want to say today. I have had my nose in and out of books. With some, my mind wanders and I have to keep reading the same line over and over. Does that happen to you? There are several books I have finished to a point and then leave about 30 pages left and put it back on the shelf—there are many of these. Some, I couldn’t tell you what the story was about, but only remember fragments that touched my soul in some way. Sometimes I digest a book, but it seems it has been understood by a deeper part of my being and is only made clear to me later, as time goes by. One book that I recently checked out of the library is Staring at the Sun: Overcoming the Terror of Death by Irvin D. Yalom. It’s not that I fear death or at least I don’t think I do. I came across this author years ago while perusing the bookshelves at Barnes and Nobles. I like to look at books and see if titles sound interesting or spines stand out. And so, my first encounter with this Yalom was with his bestseller When Nietzsche Wept. It’s been so long, but I liked his way of telling a story. And that he was a psychotherapist and professor of psychiatry, even better. I even emailed him one day asking if he was taking new patients. He was kind enough to reply that he was much too busy, but referred me to two of his colleagues. I never pursued it because I wanted him. I told myself that if ever I were to go down the path of being a counselor, he would be my model. There is something human about him and a willingness to take chances with his patients. He has the intuition to know when it is appropriate and when he can cross a boundary by sharing a piece of himself if he knows it will help in the session. I don’t know exactly where I’m going with this, except that I am happy to have bumped into his books. I have only gotten part way into the book, but I hope that when I’m finished, I will have another tool with regard to dealing with this dark friend called death.


Here is a poem that I wrote:


Bootprint by Rebbecca Hill

A snail crawled slowly

left a trail on the point

of the old boot. 

In the pasture it lies among

Strewn sticks and debris.

Once sturdy and supple,

now worn and limp,

held together by remnants

of tattered thread. 

Married to the damp mud,

The wind shakes down

the brittle leaves.

Hours, days, years--nestled

in the wrinkles and scuffs.








4 Comment count
Comment Bubble Tip

I like your poem. Snails are

I like your poem. Snails are lonely creatures.

Comment Bubble Tip

Thanks for reading,

Thanks for reading, Mary.

Poor little buggers always get squished too...

Comment Bubble Tip

Speaking of snails: snail trail

Snail Trail by Quenntis Ashby

I'm on the trail of a snail,
and not just any old snail:
He wears a fine cowboy boot with a silver spur
to all the pubs and clubs in the garden district,
He drinks Tequila Rose until his eye stalks pop
and his shell rocks to and fro,
He sings to the slugs and the frogs
of his long walk to freedom,
across a dry desert road,
between cracked flower pots and jagged stones,
over walls and broken bones.

I'm on the trail of a snail,
he's my one and only old male snail:
We were married in the damp shade of a twilit fern,
We were wed by a thirsty priest with a cracked head,
We parted ways soon after:
Him to his boot and his one-legged horse,
me to my foot and my one-person house.

Oh where can he be?
Could it (I mean it couldn't) be?
I am he and he is me?

Comment Bubble Tip

Love it! Wonderful images

Love it! Wonderful images and music to my ears!