Friday, June 28, 2013

Poetry Friday: LOON RISE


The loon labors
above the still lake—
     struggling to rise,
     heart burdened
     by this flight.

The loon lands
on the still lake—
     gliding forward,
     heart calmed
     by this homecoming.

The loon calls
across the still lake—
     resonating radiance,
     heart glorified
     by this true rising.

Dia Calhoun
Swan Lake, Washington 
June 2013

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

730 BELLS: My 3Rs: Ring, Resonate, Rise

Have you ever heard a loon call across a lake? Heard  its high, sweet call resonating over the water and lingering on the air? The sound is beautiful, plaintive, haunting.

Last week, I watched several loons—so elegant with their black heads, white breasts, and speckled black and white wings—at the lake where we camped. Loons weren’t born to fly, they labor to become airborne. Loons were born to call as they glide over the water. Born to resonate with the lake, the sky, the wind-struck reed.

This  made me think about why I love the sound of bells. Yes, the clamorous ringing fills me with joy, but the resonance of the bells is part of their haunting magic. Like the loon, I want to resonate with all of life. And I want whatever I create--a piece of writing, a piece of art--to resonate, lingering across the heart.

I may not have wings to fly, but art is my call. It is the resonance that will rise.

LORE OF THE BELL: The resonance rises.

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

7:30 BELLS In Hope of Wings

Over the past weeks, I’ve been visiting a group of goslings on the shore of Puget Sound. Watching  their wing stubs grow has made me feel both jealousy and awe. The goslings have grown from looking like awkward dust bunnies under my bed into very hungry little geese.

Their wing stubs look so truncated and odd, so unfinished. Yet, one day they will transform into beautiful feathered wings. One day the goslings will lift those wings and fly. Meanwhile, they swim and eat and grow—all in the hope of wings, the hope of one day soaring into the wondrous blue.

I am jealous because I compare my own raw shoulder blades –stubs that will never transform into wings. And then I laugh at myself. The wings don’t matter. It’s the hope of them that does--my reaching, my aspiring, my lifting toward all that is beautiful and wondrous in this life.

Soar toward beauty and the bells will ring.

Note: Next week I'll be on vacation. Listen for the 7:30 Bells again on 6/25/13

Tuesday, June 4, 2013

7:30 BELLS: Writing Outside Leads to Writing with an Impassioned Heart

To the bafflement of my friends, I’ll go to extreme lengths to write outside. In the wind and cold, I write bundled up in coats. In the rain, I write beneath a porch or deck roof. In the sun, I write in a folding chair with a flip-up sun roof—a clothespin cloth protecting the back of my laptop screen.I even chose a laptop with a matte screen--less glare.

Starting in late spring, through the summer and into the fall, I take my folding chair to various parks, beaches, docks, and gardens to write outside. If the temperature is 65 degrees or warmer, I can do this comfortably. 60 degrees is a stretch, but I’ve been known to brave it.

My friends and fellow writers ask two questions about my passion for writing outside. First: why? And second: don’t you get distracted? I have the same answer for both questions. Pausing from work to revel in the beauty of the light on the water, or the wind on a tree, isn’t a distraction. Rather, it fills my soul, refreshing and enlivening my heart in all its deepest places. This leads to better writing, because that comes from the same deep places. Most of all, I love writing outside because it I feel alive to all the glory of the world--filled with the steady ringing of the bells.

This summer I will be posting photos of some of the places I go to write: so watch for the blue chair!

Working somewhere beautiful makes the bells ring.