The Still Room
When I read poetry, which is often these days, I search for that which weds my thoughts and that which reconciles me to my fundamental incompleteness. The Still Room does both. As I was reading this collection of Shirley’s experiences I had a phrase rumbling through my heart that Virgina Woolf offered us: words belong to each other. These do. She skillfully weaves and sings the essence of purposeful observation and she quietly consents. If poetry is written to awaken me from my sleep and to calm the clamor of my most conflicted and sacred moments then the The Still Room is written for me. And all the best writing feels this way and reminds me that purpose is not something you are born with or that someone assigns you; you must find it and hold it and cultivate it and and protect it even through the ridiculous, the corrosive, and fateful. The Still Room is a sweeping reminder that a single interpretation of oneself is an illusion and that our stories mark points of departure not perpetual fixed points of reference. If the task of knowing who you are demands an unmasking and search beyond the perceived separateness of experiences then visit the stories in The Still Room. And then visit them again. See you there.