Still softly searching

Borage flowers DO taste like cucumbers

I'm dissatisfied with this blog, and I'm in need of some help here. I write here three times a week these days, and today, Tuesday, is the first one assigned (by myself) for the week. Then of course Thursdays when I hike (I have a bunch of fellow hikers who wait anxiously for the post), I am not done for the day until the pictures and the post are complete. Last of all is one for the weekend, written either Saturday or Sunday, depending on what's happening in my life.

I try to keep it short, because of all the blogs I follow, the ones that give me a taste of another person's life with a minimum of fuss are my favorites. They usually have pictures and some text, and many of the bloggers are retired like me; some are knitters, poets, photographers, grandparents and more. I used to publish more often, but I found that my life began to revolve around the search for "blog fodder." With only a few to compose each week, I have enough stuff to write about and it's not a burden.

But they are not rich and satisfying reads, they feel more like they are written to fill a page and don't usually give me a chance to talk about what's going on inside my head. I do that every Sunday morning on my other blog, Eye on the Edge, where I write as meditation. Sometimes it's good and sometimes it's not, but it's where I am at the moment.

I love Emily Dickinson poems. They speak to me in ways that most other poetry does not. Years ago I studied her life and sometimes one of her poems will come rising up to my consciousness, unbidden. Last night when I climbed into bed, I pulled out my well-worn book of her complete works and searched for the one that spoke to me of my present state. I found it.

A loss of something ever felt I—
The first that I could recollect
Bereft I was—of what I knew not
Too young that any should suspect 

A Mourner walked among the children
I notwithstanding went about
As one bemoaning a Dominion
Itself the only Prince cast out— 

Elder, Today, a session wiser
And fainter, too, as Wiseness is—
I find myself still softly searching
For my Delinquent Palaces— 

And a Suspicion, like a Finger
Touches my Forehead now and then
That I am looking oppositely
For the site of the Kingdom of Heaven— 

We only get to go around once in this life, and I really do want to use what time I have in a productive manner, so I'm going to ask you a question. Do you read this blog because I come through to you, or is it because of habit, because we all read and comment on each other's posts? Is there something YOU would like?

I just wonder if asking will give me some idea of where I might softly search for my Delinquent Palaces...

:-}