Francisco's Journal an author discusses the art of writing

January 1, 2017

2017 Resolutions

Filed under: Advice to writers,Poems,Prayer,Uncategorized,Vocation,Writing — Francisco Stork @ 10:40 am

Be a tree.

Live and know, suffer and enjoy

The spot of earth you are planted.

Root down each day for the deep moist soil of your soul

And draw from there the sap of love.

Be strong in your stillness,

But let the wind sway you as it will.

Be a shelter.

Provide shade.

Let others find rest and solace in you.

Don’t worry about whatever fruits you may bear.

Seek to be a good tree and the good fruits will come.

Be a friend of time and its seasons.

Shine bright in spring,

Glow steady in summer,

Mourn joyfully in autumn,

Let go of all that is seen in winter

To grow once more.

 

December 11, 2011

Canyons

Filed under: Nature,Poems,Prayer,Uncategorized — Francisco Stork @ 3:06 pm

The wind and rain
Carve out our days
With whispers of eternity.

Why we are hollowed
Is not a question.
The plain earth seeks
Its own treasure
And quickens beauty’s work
By waiting.

The wind’s unspoken prayer
The tip-toe and the torrent of the rain
Melt our hardened rock
Into love’s space.

How will we bear
Infinity
This wound of time
Resplendent.

We will draw
To our inverted climb
To our perilous descent
The bold explorer’s step
The friend of wind and rain.

February 27, 2011

Prayer

Filed under: Prayer,Religion,Uncategorized,Writing — Francisco Stork @ 5:17 pm

Of all the things that are hard to write about, this is one of them. It is so intimate, so private. I bring it up because there is a connection between it and writing. I’m going to say that prayer is the movement of the heart towards Mystery. Mystery can encompass a personal, loving Someone, but it need not. I define prayer broadly so as to include as much as possible. Prayer flings you out in hope and roots you down in presence. In some form or another, conscious or unconscious, it is part of writing. I don’t know what else to call this reaching out to the unknown. I don’t know why anyone would do it except as some form of prayer. This filling in and emptying out, what else can it be? We think of the word “consecrate” as a religious term and so it is, but it is religious in a human sense, a universal sense. We consecrate, we make sacred, what we carve out of our daily hours for another’s sake. The sacred is hollowed out by intention and attention. Who do you write for? And in your heart of hearts you know that what you do is always a response. Why this sense that someone calls? Where does it come from? Then there is this: the writing itself is a search for some unknown that you never reach. There are discoveries along the way, but still, you never get there. You walk in darkness, one word at a time. Somehow you trust in a meaning you do not yet see. You have faith that it is all worthwhile. Because what else can you do? The work is your prayer.

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