In Conversation

Midmorning and I’m contemplating conversation. Sort of an encapsulated ellipses from yesterday’s post, perhaps. Is that a thing? Yes. Now it is. And another question if you’re game: what do you make of the typographical kinship of mediation and meditation? The worth of tea. Whether orthographic, etymological, or altogether irrelevant similarity, this too compels consideration midmorning. But let’s stick with discourse for now. I’m openly, candidly in conversation with my home. That may seem slightly unusual. So I’ve gathered a small collage of snippets that I’m hoping might coalesce into a logic of sorts, you know, for being in conversation with Rosslyn.

The best conversations are with yourself. At least there’s no risk of a misunderstanding. — Olga Tokarczuk, Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead

I’ll ask the bits-and-bobs to stand on their own in a moment, but, first, a brief introduction. Let’s allow that conversation may take place both verbally and nonverbally. Beyond words and born of inward reflection, an internal dialogue might expand into a sustained, extemporaneous exchange. Receptive observation and deep listening are essential, as is a willingness to linger patiently, sometimes improvisationally, in the liminal, unfinished dialogue where understanding arises not necessarily from resolution but from the intimacy of attentive exchange.

Something… struck me this morning. The notion that the hammock and the shadow hammock were engaged in discourse, the sort of introspective conversations we have with ourselves all the time. Sorting and scheming, worrying or wondering. This scene, this image was every part a visual dialogue, and I, a voyeur witnessing this intimate morning contemplation instantly experienced a wave of gratitude. I was struck by the many ways that we witness Rosslyn’s contemplative conversations. So many glimpses into her whim and wisdom. (Source: Hammock & Shadow)

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I’ve come to understand that at some level, the last 17 years [now 19 years] have been an extended conversation — a running discourse, a give-and-take, a companionship — with Rosslyn.

[…]

As it has turned out, Rosslyn has far more to say than I imagined at the outset.

[…]

The sort of enduring dialogue I have experienced with Rosslyn might seem to fit better under the umbrella of phantasmagoria. Dreamlike. Horror. But that’s not the suggestion I’m making.

[…]

“just beneath the world we see,
there is a silent singing that breaks out
at moments, in flickering points of light.”
— Jeffrey Harrison, “The Singing Underneath”

When we quiet our minds and listen, deeply, receptively, and full of wonder, we’re sometimes able to hear and learn from our surroundings. No, not ghosts. Perhaps it is the essence of the things speaking to us. Perhaps it is something else.

Across these seventeen years that we’ve made our home at Rosslyn, the conversation and companionship have been omnipresent. The property had more to say than even my overzealous imagination could have conjured.

And today, alone (for the first time in almost six weeks) with Carley and Rosslyn, I’m listening. I’m wondering. I’m hearing. And it turns out she has plenty more of say. So much more. I’ll endeavor dilate the dialogue, to include you in our conversations. Soon… (Source: More to Say)

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I’ve repeatedly postponed and delayed our correspondence. I’ve dithered. I’ve distracted, myself and others, with pretty pictures and poems, field notes, flights of fancy.

I’d best not burnish my bluster with bullshit excuses. Better instead to forge ahead. To resume our correspondence. With haste. For the time of reckoning is advancing swiftly. And I’m behind schedule… (Source: Dear Rosslyn à la Dear John)

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I shouldn’t anticipate (or need) verbal participation from you, Rosslyn. Your interaction and engagement are and always have been nonverbal. And yet you’ve spoken to us in so many other ways. (Source: Dear Rosslyn: Interlude)

We’ve been in conversation for years now — me trying to guide the story; you seductively resisting closure — but recently I’ve been becoming tongue-tied. I’ve been stalling mid thought, mid sentence, mid gasp. I’m grasping at feelings, at ideas, but not quite reaching them. Breathtaking poignance, the ache of gratitude, the outline of some elusive truth evanescing like a shadow of a cloud passing overhead. I realize now that you’ve always occupied this liminal place. Part home. Part mirror. Part witness. Part collaborator. Part sanctuary. Part mystery.

So where does that leave us? In conversation. Interlocutors parsing past and possibility. No comforting arc; no final draft. Only attempting. Essaying. Circling. And perhaps that’s enough for now. This letter is less conclusion than invitation and deliberation. As so often before, today’s missive is a love letter, for I’ve loved you fiercely. But it’s a love letter with a tremor in its voice and a question in its heart. I’ve always asked so much of you. And I am still listening. Wondering. (Source: Dear Rosslyn à la Dear John)

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As far as playing jazz, no other art form, other than conversation, can give the satisfaction of spontaneous interaction. — Stan Getz