Earlier this summer, we found a rabbit nest in our back yard. The baby rabbits survived until old enough to leave their nest, but one was lost to a hawk within days of emergence.
I had been mesmerized by the rabbits’ secret nest, and I mourned the lost baby with helpless tears. I mourned, even though I understand and accept the necessary balance between rabbits and hawks, the fierce and inescapable truth that binds life to life.
I live in a place called “I’m working on it”, which is a place of dreams, poems, and partial manuscripts. Hopelessly entangled, my real and written worlds mirror each other like water reflections, distorted by winds above and stones below.
In rare moments the surface calms, allowing imagination to breach the plane of possibility.
Maybe such moments are all the success I will ever achieve, or need. If so, success is deeply personal and vexingly random. Perhaps even trivial. That’s what this blog will contain: the personal, random, and trivial. Odd moments of clarity, when life is marvelous, even though I am merely “working on it.”
Rae Spencer 