Learning how to partake

Partaking is an art.
Partaking balances the gestures of giving and receiving.

It is far more difficult than I thought.
Giving is a habit. The habit of a lifetime. For most of us, this is true. Most of us ... at least I think it's most of us ... give more than we receive.
Perhaps that is partly why there is such an uneven distribution of wealth across the globe?
Many habitual givers consistently clamour their outrage at the greed of a few takers, a few people who (apparently) take more than they give.
But perhaps habitual givers should change their habits, if for no other reason than to balance things out a bit?
If our giving is out of balance with our receiving, aren't we tempting others to be unpleasantly greedy?
I think so.

My to-do lists consist of mouse-feet-sized steps, each one leading me a little further towards the imminent launch of Greater Matter, and towards enabling those who wish to own a copy actually to purchase one.

Being a poet has been, in my case, a revelatory disability in many respects. I can, maybe, brag about walking the ether and inhabiting heart-space with birds and serpents, duikers and hares; but the big question now is: can I walk on ground my consciousness has not actually touched?

The advantage is that it is not too late to learn. And it is not unacceptable to say, Wait for me, I need to catch up with the rest of you guys. I still need to learn the ropes of this vast ship called business.

As for 'you guys' - have you touched MY ground with YOUR consciousness? Have you dared blink into the dew-glinting threads I spin? Because they'll bowl you over, they'll make you drunk on the very water of life, man!

I feel immense gratitude towards those who have already bought their copy of Greater Matter: we have already embraced in the dance of the partaking.

The more you take what I have to give, the more with you I shall know myself to be: partaking simply and gently and ecstatically in the flow of things. Yay.

The business of a book

What with a chest of drawers stuffed with decades' worth of manuscript material, you decide finally to produce a book. A real book. With a publisher and an ISBN number and proper binding and marketing strategies for a wider readership. Because that's what you know in your heart must happen with this mere tip of an iceberg of words you've built up over a lifetime: the tip, at least, must be shared, somehow made accessible, somehow find the eyes, the heart or hearts that need them.

But you did not think, did you? You did not think that writing over a lifetime in no way qualifies you to enter the business world. You are not a businesswoman. You fear business. You fear technology. You have no experience.

But you've come this far. The book exists. You hold it. You love it.

To turn back now would be more difficult than to keep going. You can't see where you're going. Kind people, good people help you. The steps are infinitely slow. You tell yourself that this is not who you are, you are an ageing woman wanting grandchildren, wanting to sing them songs, you want quiet and to do the dishes and re-fill the bird-bath.

The people you love, who are close around you, are - many of them - stressed. Some are ill. Some are disabled or crippled, whether temporarily or permanently. All are in pain of one kind or another. All are making huge, constant efforts to do their best, to keep smiling.

There are other people around you, whom you are not close to, who are killing each other, hurting one another, speaking in ugly ways.

Some of the braver people you know post calls to, write open letters to the president, crying out their anguish about the painfully ugly words and deeds of the others.

While so many are hurting and distressed, you take down and fold washing, you make salad and ask your nephew, "Can you show me how to take a screen shot?"

Because you know you must stay calm. The way the crew on a ship like the Canada Maru must stay calm in the midst of a violent storm; the way it must sail on - whether or not there is a boy with white legs, falling out of the sky.

And you walk blindly - so you feel - through the darkness with your book, letting it be your lantern.