Tuesday, February 18, 2014


Two nights ago from my front row seat on the sofa, I watched garbage cans and debris clank down the street in 45 mph gusts of wind. I made two trips to the curb after midnight to prop up garbage and recycling containers. I wasn't sleeping anyway, too busy sneezing and blowing my nose to sleep. Gary was generous with his cold.

You may think, is the "blown away" of this blog about that wind storm? No. Maybe the nose blowing then? Another no. The "BLOWN AWAY" of this blog is about a synchronicity too crazy for words.

The phone rang last night around dinner time, but I didn't get to it before the call went to voice mail. When I checked the message, the voice of a long time friend I've been out of touch with surprised me. A letter now and then or a Christmas card are the remains of a once close friendship. "Hi ML," the message said, "I have a proposal or at least a question. Give me a call when you have time."

Hmm, I wonder what this is about?

After dinner I dialed the number. "Oh, ML it's you. Nice to hear your voice," as though it was weeks not years since we talked last. "I remembered a conversation we had about art making." she went on to say. "Unlike some artist I know who just make art and don't fuss about it, we are slowed down by perfectionism. I thought maybe we could encourage each other. I clean my studio more than I make art."

It was as though she knew I spent the afternoon cleaning my studio. An interesting coincidence, but not on the level of "blown away."

Then it happened. She said, "Today I remembered a poem that speaks to me. Do you know it? When I Met My Muse." I couldn't believe my ears. I opened the book of William Stafford poems right there next to me to the bookmarked poem When I Met My Muse. "Did I hear you right?" I asked. "Did you read my blog?"

"No, don't you remember, I'm not computer literate. Why do you ask?"

"Because I wrote about that poem on my blog yesterday. I have the book of Stafford poems right here."

My friend's voice on the other end of the phone didn't miss a beat. "You know it then. Aren't the last lines beautiful?"
. . . . . "I am your own
way of looking at things," she said. "When
you allow me to live with you, every
glance at the world around you will be
a sort of salvation." And I took her hand.

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