To begin something long-incubating

When death comes

like the hungry bear in autumn;

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;

when death comes

like the measle-pox;

when death comes

like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything

as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common

as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,

tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something

precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life

I was a bridge married to amazement.

I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,

or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

— Mary Oliver.

I have begun this blog for a few reasons. They are of no particular order, or relevance, but all wave their hands emphatically insisting upon their importance. One is that I am a storyteller, and here is where I will, in part, tell stories. Another is that through my travels, I want somewhere to check in, to report back, a log of sorts. Another reason is to report. I will be informally investigating things, working out the details of telling those kinds of stories, of acknowledging all the details in the telling of a message.

So, in honor of the fourth-realm calibre writing that I am devouring from Mary Oliver, in honor of her effervescent engagement with life, I am here, writing.