I took out my pen and began drawing the other day: stressed out, overworked, 12 hours into a 24-hour shift with not enough windows and too many doors.
I thought I was drawing a roadmap, something a little complicated and impossible to follow unless you slow down the car to watch where you’re going.
I thought I was drawing the skeletal treetops, more beautiful in winter, and the only view from my little window.
I realized finally I was drawing a poem. It is a poem about where I’m at, what I’m feeling, trapped in this once-monastery, in this cold January, where I live and work.
Oh, but this winter sun still shines gold and there are layers of warm dirt to discover beneath the frost.