Sharing Ourselves

Early this summer, my husband and I were invited to dinner with friends from our church to get better acquainted.

I took gifts: a bottle of wine for the hostess, and a tile magnet for the others, a business professor and his accountant wife by vocation, chefs by avocation. They art by leading us in "Feasting with the Saints" several times a year. We become their kitchen staff, as they create sumptuous gourmet meals which celebrate the traditions of a particular saint, according to the season. The little tile spoke of wit and warmth, birthed by a good meal in community.

I was surprised to find a fifth guest. But I had brought along a poem to amuse my husband on the drive. It was the first poem I had written in at least two years. Laughing, I presented it.

And this lady pleased me much as she gathered her things at the end of the evening, making certain we located her gift so she could be sure to take it home.

Here's the poem I gave her that night. Synchronicity! Our intention was to get better acquainted, and only hours before, I had remembered:

It’s hot, and they say red alert don’t breathe the air today—

But the katydids sing like they always did

in the trees at Eagle Mountain Lake

When I was a child who thought myself grown—

An old pickup truck, with a bed chock full of long teen legs and arms and hair—

bouncing down an ill paved country road toward Dido’s marina,

where motor boats buzzed like moths around the fishy pier—

And you smelled the water and the sweat

That sweet sweat smell and katydid song

And the glistening lake called us to wet our sandy suits again—

Summer in North Texas—

Sublime.

When we share our art, we share ourselves deeply.

Assignment: Share yourself--write a poem before you sleep tonight, and again when you rise. Share yourself with you.