Tuesday, April 17, 2012

On the verge.

I went shopping for myself last night. I bought two dresses and two pairs of dress pants and a very stylish cardigan. I even bought a couple bangle bracelets for just under $15.00. I am very slowly building up a professional wardrobe, this time paying a little more attention to style.

I never really thought that style mattered before, but I had a presentation, and I bought myself a new shirt for it. I have a classmate that is also on clinicals with me at this facility. She said, and I quote here: "I like your top. Really. I'm not being sarcastic."

I looked at her quizzically. She is a bit of a smartmouth.

She looked back and punched me on the arm. "You just looked at me like you didn't believe me."

I laughed. "No," I said. "I'm just not accustomed to being complimented on my fashion sense. It made me feel confident to be dressed nicely. I didn't expect that feeling. I've always seen clothes as something you put on so as not to be naked. That's all.

So last night, I bought new clothes. I have Cara's honors presentation on Thursday night, and it makes me glad to think that I will be dressed rightly for this. I am looking forward to this night.

So much is coming to an end in my life, it seems. School, fieldwork, graduation, mine and Cara's both. Although I have not gotten a new job, not yet, I went to work today, missing it already. It really is a nice job, and a nice place to work. I will really miss my coworkers a lot. So much is coming to and end, but still for every ending, there is the promise of something even grander lying in wait.

It's a remarkable time.

This poem has been occupying my mind today.

Another Kind of Autumn

The petrified branch with the harsh look whose mineralized
splinters are needle sharp
was living a hundred million years ago,
bent to invisible wind, put out leaves on the mountain.
Today
the mountain is gone and this fragment
lies on my desk imperishable and waits for me in turn
to be gone.
Living once it has taken to minerals for survival.
This hand that writes
stiffens, but has no such powers, no crystalline absorption
to hold a pen through eons while slow thought gutters
from lichen-green boulders and fallen pinnacles.
Ink will congeal and perish, the pen rust into its elements,
the thought here, the realization of time, perish
with the dissolving brain. It appears the universe
likes the seams of the coal, the lost leaf imprinted in shale,
the insect in amber, but thought it gives to the wind
like the season's leaf fall. Where is the wind that shaped
this branch?
It perhaps still moves in the air, but the branch has fallen.
Its unfamiliar leaves are now part of my body
and I let the pen drop with my hand, thinking
this is another kind of autumn to be expected.
Leaves and thought are scarcely returnable. The wind
loses them
or one remains in the shale like an unread hieroglyph
once meaningful in clay.

-- Loren Eiseley --
the title poem from Another Kind of Autumn

Do you suppose that it is true? That we run out of thoughts, that we become once meaningful? It makes me sad to think that this might be true.

2 comments:

Kelly said...

Wonderful poem, Debby. It's one I'm going to have to read several times, then maybe again.

Hal Johnson said...

Endings and beginnings. That's life, isn't it?