Writing at the raw edge opens the dimness for a brief glimpse of my now. Writing at the raw edge unlocks the gates of my whirling for a moment. Writing at the raw edge spews my dark lava onto a screen for a moment of now.
Lament 8: On Writing
Author: joanvinallcox
Joan Vinall-Cox, Ph.D. is a lifelong learner, retired communications professor, and rabid reader who has taught in both the college and university systems.
Her Ph.D., in 2004 was an Autoethnographic Arts-Based Narrative Inquiry focused on moving from technophobia to technophilia.
She is a widow from a pretty happy marriage and a mother to a strong and kind daughter.
Her interests include Centering Prayer, Multiple Intelligences, Attention Deficit Disorder and its connection to creativity, Jung, Campbell’s Monomyth, and Arts-Based Narrative Inquiry.
This Bleak Midwinter
Christmas lights the colour of twilight, and a heritage nativity set, - A bleak celebration avoiding plastic Santas or plastic regrets Awaiting a new year, watching changes from remembered winters, listening to the noise of fools heard on the tv news.
The Colours of Twilight
New Year’s Greeting
“Holy Uncertainty”
Living not-knowing groping in mystery gazing blindly at rare shafts of twilight, this liminal time is always and now.
December 28, 2022
Saturday Morning at Home, After Spending a Night in My Friend’s New Home
Words shape in the feel of rooms remembered, when, suddenly - I know I’m awake & the day waits.
Lament 7: Alone
New moon and fog As I glance out From my cave. A smugglers’ night: where are they? (Words on a page Delight me. I wouldn’t, couldn’t Be taught to hear As you heard.) Some trees are leafless Skeletonal And some cling to their leaves. (You’ve left And a new season Is emerging Into bleak darkness.) A brief flash of light - Others carry treasures I can’t see Or hear now But I am not alone.
Lament 6: Grief
I wake sulky, reluctant, reviewing my resentments, lonely, yet don’t want visitors. Nothing satisfies: the sun is too bright; Our home too quiet. I want to hide. Another funeral - sitting huddled within myself, fists clenched, trying not to listen, wanting to leave, shaking. I crave - a softening in my throat, eyes that don’t itch, a conversation no longer available. Somewhere there is joy, waiting, perhaps, to flash through me, again, but now I’m grieving.
Lament 5
My summer is over; chill seeps into the silent room: winter comes..
Learning Living 