I have been wanting to write a few poems and have turned away from the idea now for several months, since my surgery in February. The surgery was a critical and delicate procedure involving removing and replacing my abdominal aorta with a new artificial one. I had developed an aneurysm in that old aorta that was “monstrous” in size and could have burst at any time. I spent a week in Stanford Hospital in Palo Alto, California, recuperating in intensive care. And was then sent home to slowly recuperate. The surgery went quite well and I have almost completely healed, but for a few lingering pains now and then. I am fortunate to have had the aneurysm discovered during a ultrasound scan of my liver, which was performed for further understanding of why my liver enzymes had become elevated. For now, all appears to be resolved.
I have been reading from a wide selection of books on my favorite topics, which always seem to cluster around the topics of religion, meditation, philosophy and poetry. Several times in these past few months I’ve wanted to take up the writing habit once again, but thought that perhaps the surgery had reduced my stamina too much, and I just needed to relax and let go of nearly everything. Besides, after experiencing a life-threatening trauma, the writing seemed to me to not be as important as it had once before. Life itself, however, must have other designs on my purpose than those that I understand myself. Some how this blessed Earth and I still reach a daily connection, which prompts me to awaken and look around me at the events, the flow of events, through which I am constantly passing.
So there were a few poems that I had been working on prior to my surgery in February–perhaps ten or so, that I hope to ready-up for publishing in the next few days. After I have posted those, I am sort of in new water. My inspiration still dwindles and requires a renewal. Some times just being quiet and being away from the fire of the creative life provides an environment of fertility that sparks, smolders, and hopefully bursts. Oh, I’m alive, and happy for the excitement of this thing we call living, whether the poetry comes with it or not.