Tag: writer

Soul Sunday

Good morning, friends. I think that I will call you “soulmates” on Sundays. Good morning, soulmates. Sundays are usually the most popular day here on the blog. I love that you all are open to poetry. I love that you have helped me to rediscover the poet in me. I hope that you have also discovered (or rediscovered) the poet, in you, as well. Sundays are devoted to the emotional, sometimes non-sensical, mysterious spillage of words called poetry. Please explore the poem which I have written for today, and please also, feel comfortable and safe to share your poems in my Comments section. It has been wonderful sharing this moment with you on this lovely, tranquil day, my beloved soulmates. I look forward to many more connecting moments with you. Peace.

Keeper of the Words

Sometimes the words spill out of me and I can’t contain them.

Depending on how forceful and projectile the emotion is behind them,

The words scramble desperately to find their way on to the screen,

quicker than I can type them into visual form.

Sometimes the words slide out of me and surprise me,

I had no inner rumination of their simmering pot in my conscience.

The words leave me, before I even knew that they were with me.

Sometimes I have no words. I have nothing to write.

Nothing. My inner cache is empty. And that is okay.

When I have nothing to write, it clears the space,

Until the words accumulate again, to fill the void,

As they always do.

The words don’t require my participation,

They only ask for the keys to release them.

When the pressure mounts and the time is ripe,

I generously allow the words to flow out.

I am not the jailer of the words,

I am only their keeper.

Jailers suffocate and diminish and intimidate,

Keepers nurture and protect and trust in growth,

And further, keepers innately know when it is time,

to let their beloved charges fly free.

Are you passing on love, or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

I am a Writer.

I’ve been trying on this “new identity” for a few months now.  I’m allowing myself to be called a “writer.”  Writing is something that I have always done in non-formal ways.  I have always liked to write “for me”, but this is the first time that I have really gotten honest and serious, with myself and with the world, that I identify as a writer.  I imagine that’s how it goes for a lot of people.  Artists probably do a lot of scribbling and filling drawing pads before they say, “This is what feels right.  This is a huge part of me.  This is a great passion of mine.  This is not just my hobby.  I am an artist.”  I believe that is the same for photographers, dancers, actors, decorators, etc. – basically anyone who finds their way of being in the world, fulfilled through the creative arts.

It has been said many times that writers are the observers of life.  Susan Sontag put it this way:

“A writer is someone who pays attention to the world – a writer is a professional observer.”

Another quote I read recently is this (unfortunately I can’t find the source):

“A good writer reveals the truth even when he or she does not wish to . . . ”

I don’t consider myself a very observant person.  I would make a terrible witness.  I couldn’t tell you what cars my friends drive and I often walk around with stained shirts without even realizing it.  When I was very young, I learned early not to “bet my life” on any detail of anything, because more often than not, I had the particular detail flat-out wrong. (long story for another time)  I’ve always considered myself a “big picture” person, but the details seem to go right over my head.

I said to my husband, “Maybe I’m not a writer.  I’m not at all observant.”  He said, “You are observant about what you care about.”

Another quote struck me recently.  This is from one of my favorite writers, Mark Twain.  He said:

“The two most important days in your life are the day you were born and the day you find out why.”

Now, Mark wasn’t a woman, so I don’t think that he had that completely right.  All of us mothers knew a great, instant purpose in our lives, when we first gazed into our newborn babies’ eyes.  The connection we feel for our children, and the gift and privilege that the Universe entrusts in us, by allowing us to bring them into the world is enough reason “why” for eternity’s sake.

Still, we as mothers also know that we do a disservice to our children if we don’t find out “the other whys” to our own existence.  We cannot swallow our children whole and pilfer their “purposes in life”, as our own.  If we do that, we steal from them, us and the world.  We are all meant to bloom separately, so that the bouquet of Life is as full and flourishing and beautiful as it is meant to be.

In short, it is a great blessing in this middle stage of life, to be taking on a new title, a new identity, a new way of being in the world and owning it.  I am a mother.  I am a wife.  I am a daughter, sister, friend, aunt, niece, citizen, child of the Universe and I am a writer.