July 11, 2023

I was in my middle twenties and a thirsty young queer woman who was gobbling up early and mid-20th century poets and writers when I discovered May Sarton. I haven’t read her since that time. It was only after a friend from this time in my life mentioned her did I remember how much I loved her quiet prose. I’m slowly working my way through an anthology, the same anthology I read so many years ago. Every line, word, space holds special meaning that I am holding in my sight and savoring. Today’s Sarton fragment is from I Knew a Phoenix: sketches for an autobiography 1912-1937

. . .arranging flowers is like writing in that it is an art of choice. Not everything can be used of the rich material that rushed forward demanding utterance. And just as one tries one word after another, puts phrases together only to tear it apart, so one arranges flowers. It is engrossing work, and needs a fresh eye and a steady hand. When you think the thing is finished, it may suddenly topple over, or look too crowded after all, or a little meager.

I find myself writing as I walk to pick the prairie flowers hiding in the shadows of the robust grass we have this year. Collecting seeds this mid-summer is meditative work for me, as engrossing and joyful as arranging flowers at the kitchen sink. As engrossing as arranging words at the keyboard.