Don’t Stop Me If You’ve Heard This Before
the writer of Ecclesiastes knew
I am learning too
there is nothing new under the sun
a million graduates graced the stage
diplomas and dreams clenched in fists of tan hands
a million mothers have sat with pride
remembering everything that ever was
nothing is not remembered, nothing is allowed forgetting
you may say I have heard this before
this retelling, it’s too familiar to wake me up, make me come alive
everything about this moment
the other ones too
though told before
burst forth with new birth
and old is new, anew
don’t stop me if you’ve heard this before
because I will not stop talking
a million mothers may sit with pride
but there is only one me
and there is only one us
repetition is the echo, the bold, the exclamation point
everything bears repeating
the chorus and refrain sing me home
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I am popping in to say that this is my writing home, my blog, my website, my place. But I want you to know that I also have another place, designed for people who choose to share a little space in their email inbox once a month or so. That decide to invite my words into that guarded space, the inbox —in the form of a letter. It has grown to be one of my favorite places to create, to communicate, and to correspondent with my readers.
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with grace and gratitude,
elizabeth w. marshall
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March One, 2018
There is a sacredness and intimacy about this art of letter writing. A beautiful tenderness of one me speaking to one you—though the you is multiplied. Perhaps that is why I have saved so many letters over the years. A hunter green metal foot locker hides under the bed in my office—a repository of memory and mystery. In it rest decades upon decades of letters. I have saved them—like a memory hoarder, sometimes not even knowing why. As if one day there might be a grand revealing of important plots and sub-plots. As if the aged smell of paper and stamp and glue would give up clues to my past. As if one line might contain a piece of my bigger story that longs to be heard, one that needs remembering and re-telling. If I would only pull the thread.
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Maybe the light is always just right.
Maybe we are standing a quarter inch off of where we need to be to see.
Maybe the slant is always pouring in with just the perfect amount of glint and shadow
To show us where to cast our eyes.
Perhaps we moved at the speed of un-noticing all those years ago. And left the beauty in
Perhaps the Light is always just right.
And sacred ordinary was always waiting to have its time of quiet hallelujah, with you
And you alone.
Maybe the Light is always just right.
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