they are gathered around me, heads bent to watch me take each too-light breath, willing my lips not to turn blue again. I am too small and always cold, but my people are looking at me as if I were the sun
My teachers are people who notice things and are somehow moved to share what they’ve seen and heard and felt and learned with others. So Margaret Renkl noticed many noteworthy things and shared them with the New York Times and with other publishers. David Kanigan read the NYT, mentioned reading Margaret on his blog, which was spotted by my friend Mimi in the US, who mentioned it on her blog, which I’m always delighted to read, and so some of all that Margaret Renkl knows, along with some of her brother’s stunning illustrations, by way of electronic ether, arrived here in the UK – with me. Late – but great – migrations.
Now I’ve never imagined that many people notice what I notice. I don’t imagine that I’m the kind of writer who attracts tens, hundreds or thousands of readers. I don’t imagine that some things I think important will matter much to others. I own that much occurs in this world that is of little interest to me – on football fields, for example. But yet I honour all who are willing to share what they have noticed (and thus may honour some of my own intention) because I do believe that everything that has been, or is, or will be, matters to someone and ought therefore, having been noticed, to be shared – though it may forever thereafter remain unnoticed. Still the life of a pond, or a long married couple, or of a bluebird, or of a nation matters. And what matters can help us all as we contemplate, meditate, and migrate, early or late.
Not everything matters to everyone. But everything matters to someone. And I resolve anew to try to notice more, to communicate more. And to be kind.