{"id":42641,"date":"2023-02-09T21:18:51","date_gmt":"2023-02-10T02:18:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/rachellerogers.com\/dev1\/?p=42641"},"modified":"2026-02-28T10:25:05","modified_gmt":"2026-02-28T15:25:05","slug":"a-resurrection-of-words-2023","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/rachellerogers.com\/dev1\/a-resurrection-of-words-2023\/","title":{"rendered":"A Resurrection Of Words – 2023"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n
\n
\n

09<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n

FEBRUARY 2023<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n

Writing
Creativity
Wisdom Healing Qigong<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

\n

A Resurrection Of Words \u2013 2023<\/h1>

by Rachelle Rogers<\/a><\/span><\/p><\/div><\/div>\n\n

I\u2019ve wanted to resurrect this blog for a long time, but it seems my Muses have been on vacation in Bora Bora since right after my memoir,\u00a0Rare Atmosphere: An Extraordinary Inter-dimensional Affair of the Heart<\/a>,<\/em> was published in 2013. I\u2019ve been waiting a long while for their return, unable to wing one creative word across a page. In truth, I feel pretty sure those Muses aren\u2019t coming back. They were the Muses to a different me, in another time, in what feels like a previous life lived in this body. I liked to think they were the Muses of Keats and Shelley, of the truth of imagination, of the holiness and often fragility of the Romantic heart.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m not that me anymore. In fact, I don\u2019t know what me I am now. So much life has been lived since then, so many changes without and within, especially in the often challenging process of moving through time. I\u2019m beyond seventy-six now, and wondering how this can be happening. I still believe in\u00a0the truth of imagination<\/em>\u00a0and\u00a0the holiness of the heart\u2019s affection<\/em>, as Keats so eloquently expressed, but it isn\u2019t the same heart found in the poetry, story, novel, memoir I wrote in past decades. It\u2019s more than the heart that can be broken. It\u2019s the larger heart, the deeper heart, the vaster heart that now inspires me. Maybe my new muses will be a little more Rumi and Hafiz, a lot more my own Inner Being.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

\n
\n
<\/span><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n
\n
\n

So here I am, finally sliding words across a keyboard, inviting you to share my journey as I explore what it means to live an authentic life, especially at a time when everything seems unreal. I will still write about things that move me \u2014 art, literature, music, dance, film, theater, and other forms of creative expression that uplift the human spirit, and I may dare to offer a larger perspective on the state of the world. I might introduce you to Spankie, my lower self, or let thoughts through my day run stream of consciousness down a page. I also will write about the inspiration and insight I\u2019ve gleaned and the many contemplations that have arisen from my almost seven year practice of Wisdom Healing Qigong (see Challenge, Choice, and Chi<\/em><\/a>). You might find ruminations on Embracing Paradox, What Is Healing?, Being Happy For No Reason.<\/p>\n

But then, the larger plan is to make no plan, so who knows where this blog might lead, or how often I will post, although I'm aiming for at least twice a month. One thing I do hope to resurrect is the once quirky, witty voice that often came out in my stories<\/a>, and with writerfriends. Being joyful hasn\u2019t been easy for me in these past three years. Wit seems to have absconded along with my former Muses. Ha.<\/p>\n

I hope you find something meaningful in my current meanderings, and I invite you to take a look at the few earlier posts from previous incarnations of this blog that I\u2019ve left intact.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n
\n
\n
<\/span><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n
\n
<\/div>\n\n
\n

On impulse, I perused an old journal, one a friend had given me, ironically with Rumi quotes on each page, and I found a private reflection I wrote in 2005. I remember the day. It was a rainy July afternoon at Wildacres Retreat high atop Piney Knob in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina during one of the nine summers I attended an annual two-week writers critiquing workshop and retreat. I guess maybe even back then, my muses had already included a little Rumi.<\/p>\n

This is not a day for asking questions\u2026
<\/em>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u2014Rumi<\/p>\n

Cerulean sky does not ask why it wakes
amid a thread of cloud. Shameless
meadowlark doesn\u2019t contemplate
the echo of its morning song.
The lily never wonders as it lifts
its russet underside to light.<\/p>\n

Questions are the province of the mind,
and this is not a day for seeking.
Rest instead upon a smile, a touch,
a blue-eyed gaze. Rest this day
within the province of the heart where
everything is already known.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

\n
\n
← <\/span>Being Before Doing<\/span><\/a><\/span>Reading By Ear<\/span> →<\/span><\/a><\/span><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n