It was interesting to read this paragraph today, because I had just been thinking about a piece of art I want to buy, though I’m not sure when or where I will put it (I have a fair bit of organizing/donating/selling to do, though slowly making headway through it.)
This is what I’ve been eying:
Why this image? It brings to mind the poet Caedmon, and his poem about the creation of the world.
Caedmon’s story is one I first encountered as a child, and then even more memorably in university when I learned to read it (sort of) in the original Old English.
Retold as a children’s story:
My account partly explaining how Caedmon and Hild have entered into my story is linked below. I say “partly” because I don’t ever feel like I can fully explain why this story means so much to me. It has a way of continually inviting me back in, pulling me into complex root systems, seeking, seeking some unseen well of water. I did a bit of a deep dive in university with my long poem “A Gift of Bones,” but I’ve never felt like this has exhausted the potential. If I pay attention, I feel like pieces of my life are always returning to this story.
What happens if I invite it in?
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