I rediscovered my typewriter recently. A Royal Quiet De Luxe typewriter that is anything but quiet in the calm of the early morning.
It is attached to a raggedy black box, worn along all the edges from travels I never went on. Yet the contents of the box take me to places I have a hard time going otherwise.
My typewriter is the only place I can write without hesitation.
The only place I can write poetry.
The only place I can write honestly, for myself.
I was reminded of this again this morning when I opened up the box and noticed some scrap paper nestled behind the typewriter. It held a poem I wrote on May 23, 2016.
As a soil scientist, I can only imagine I was thinking about soil at the time (because I am always thinking about soil). But now I see that the poem is a call to connect with more than just the soil itself. It is a call to build community for and with the soil; for and with each other.
of the sun
deep beneath our feet
stretching far and wide
further than imagined
further than predicted
further, much further
than most are willing to go
beyond the lines
we drew for ourselves
beyond the fear
we grew for each other
all the way down there
where most never thought to look
and many, so many