I wrote a post for this blog. Only to find myself switching blog platforms and trying to merge blogs…this used a lot of brain power and somewhere along the way i lost what i wrote. I have to tell you, i thought the writing was quite beautiful and i wish i was one of those people who actually wrote her draft in a text editor instead of directly into the THING. Alas, i am not that person.
i think i was trying to muse about the poetry of early mornings. You know that time when you think all is possible and amazing before you have to get into the shuffle of the day. Before you have to be responsible for the life and limbs of others. Before the sun and before the neighbors even think about going to work…well some of them…there are some early risers around here.
today, i realized i missed blogging. I have never been a epic or “popular” blogger but i have kept a blog since about 2007. It has always been a way to engage with my life and heart. I miss stories. I miss wading through my stories. So where along the way i became a bit self-conscious and self-important when it came to online writing. Let me tell you, that is one way to kill the spark.
However, lately I have been writing. Lots of bad stuff. Really. Good things, too. This has been a discombobulating time…this time is full of emotions and mundaneness. I don’t have words that can wade through it all. I am just feeling. Allowing myself to feel what needs to be felt. Holding and helping where i can. The world is as it is- messy and marvelous. Things are hard and glorious. I can’t figure it out. Who can? Is that our job or are we here for something else? Something deeper? I have no answers. Only questions that probe my heart. That encourage to embrace the darkness and the light. Move loosely with more observation and introspection. Less knowing.
I remember when i was younger. Even in college, writing notebook after notebook full of thoughts and musing. Writing for no one but myself. Observing my insides and outsides. Although, i would do readings and share with my friends…it was very spontaneous and juicy. There was no shyness. I don’t want to go back to those days…goodness that was WILD time. Also, the writing was mostly about men. Goodness so much unresolved angst and love. So much looking for myself in the other. However, the spirit of the pen…the love Of the words… i would like to channel. I still believe that words can be a bridge to healing.
I think college tainted my whole relationship with writing. Then social media came along and allowed it to go up in flames. you see, it’s hard to separate people’s responses and reactions from your own soul’s wisdom…especially if you have spent a lifetime of distrusting yourself and your existence. That’s where i was. I am not there anymore. Hopefully, i am further away form there (that place of deep self-loathing and unbelonging) than i have ever been.
I once shared some poems in a reading (in college) about my family. The sense of self I had at that time growing up as i did, where i did, how did and in this skin. I think the reading were title underneath my skin. I think that I cried when i finished reading. I think other people cried. I don’t know if those poems where particularly good but i do know that they were true. Writing true became a salve until i gave it up for praise.
These past few years have been a wild ride through my heart. My very being.
Art and images rose. Up in me.
Words felt hard to come by but now they are here.
in their messy. Very ungrammatical way.
Not even fit for public consumption.
I AM not trying to be consumed.
Just trying to commune.
with like spirits.
with the page. With life.
these. My words…past present and future…words are like cow chewing the cud.
*rumination that hopes to become fertilizer for the soul.soil.
This is just *red oar in the
a *woman rowing.
*referring to -a yellow raft in blue water: ruminate magazine/a novel by Michael Dorris /rowing poem by Anne Sexton