Inevitably, I will have a gazillion little distractions and Perfectly Good Reasons to delay a sit-down with a blank screen.

The old cliche’ of an alcoholic award-winning novelist or the newspaper reporter with a bottle of scotch in his desk drawer derive from the sometimes burdensome isolation of a writer. I wonder if it is this that Emily Dickinson recalls in “There is another Loneliness”.

There is another Loneliness
That many die without –
Not want of friend occasions it
Or circumstances of Lot

But nature, sometimes, sometimes thought
And whoso it befall
Is richer than could be revealed
By mortal numeral –

There is satisfaction in writing when I’ve completed a blog post or other writing project that is deliciously different from other pleasures. And, plenty of people have other private satisfactions.  And, I’m sure they have equally be-deviling habits to stand in their way without ever an attempt to make a dime with their time at a keyboard. “There is another Loneliness / That many die without – ”.

It’s not the kind of loneliness that has anything to do with a lack of friends. “Not want of friend occasions it”.  Nor can it be blamed on the rich or poor circumstances of my life. It doesn’t even have anything to do with having a job, a mate, or, much else. “Or circumstances of Lot”.

This next line slows me down after the somewhat mysterious words of the first stanza. And, then hands me over to a slow, contemplative – almost rock back and forth – tempo. “But nature, sometimes, sometimes thought”.  That line.  It sits out there all by itself.  Through repetition of “sometimes, sometimes” it emphasizes the rarity of the experience of writing greatness.  Thought, in the world of Dickinson poetry needs no object to be a verb. Thought, like nature, just is.  Upon completion of my writing, I may feel a oneness with nature.  Fine.  That is one thing. “But nature, sometimes, sometimes thought” through me! What an amazing way to say how it feels to create something out of words. A rare privilege, indeed.

The final thought of this poem is to recognize the prosperous condition of our spirits when we overcome the isolation, the fear to publish, and tell the wolves of self-doubt to find another victim. “And whoso it befall / Is richer than could be revealed / By mortal numeral – ”.  Immortal numeral for immortal words.  Don’t I wish.

Ponder A Poem A Day – Accept What Comes Your Way

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