In your apartment, an endless
hodgepodge of opened books and
magazines and articles, all duly
noted, highlighted and clipped
for some special time, place,
or person. “Whatever will I do with this mess?”
you lament, and yes, the funny thing is in
some funny way, it all does matter.
Take note: no worthy thing or
one will be slighted or
overlooked, not if you can help it.
Keep dancing with Richard, Mom, and
keep rooting for the
underdog. You know no other way, and
if there’s a particularly outstanding Charlie
Rose show on tonight we’ll most likely hear
from you. It’s all so rare that the heart and
the mind are such soaring, steadfast,
even
glorious, companions. Your love of all of these books
and
articles and workshops and operas compose
not a mess but a
masterpiece. It is a work you
have woven all these years through
curiosity,
compassion, and an almost invincible conviction.
You
may misplace a newspaper clipping or
two but never your love of
all of
this and all of us: this is your light,
and this is you:
a work in progress because
you care and you actually work at being
a
work in progress. So very few embrace
this high art. And so,
in your place,
there really is a place for almost
every thing,
and certainly every
one of us, so lucky to be in
your gentle
heart.
/mr
/2004
