The last session of summer camp has begun. I locked my counselors-in-training into a freezer yesterday and told them to escape, and soon we'll go hiking, and then river rafting, and then I'll be northward bound into an indeterminate future. Since the solstice my morning runs have become much grayer. The mosquito swarm that has kept me company in my sleeping area all summer is diminishing, and I've noticed that the vacant half-moon has been looking a lot like a question mark. I've also been wondering about inspiration. Muses, you know, and the desire to change the world.
This post doesn't have an explicit purpose, but I thought I'd ramble a bit since I haven't in a while. In the spirit of musing, I'll put up a poem by William Stafford that I absolutely love:
"When I Met My Muse"
I glanced at her and took my glasses
off--they were still singing. They buzzed
like a locust on the coffee table and then
ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the
sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and
knew that nails up there tok a new grip
on whatever they touched."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.
