The bow bent remembers home long,
the years of its tree, the whine
of wind all night conditioning
it, and its answer – Twang!
To the people here who would fret me down
their way and make me bend:
by remembering hard I could startle for home
and be myself again.
William Stafford: The Way It Is: New & Selected Poems
There is a stretch that inevitably comes from trying to hold an experience with equanimity. From the moment we wake up there will be a long line of people willing us to bend around their tautness.
What to do?
Bend to that point of being useful, of creating space between bow and string so that the Twang is a single, resonant note of your mutual liberation.
Thank you for practicing,