renewal

 

She observed the waves
coming ashore
kissing the sand
which then melts into it

eroding, destroying
sculpting
re-positioning

the relationship to
the shoreline
being destroyed
to be recreated

It was inevitable.

she welcomed
all of it.

knowing the edge
was meant
to cut apart
to what was real

she welcomed
solitude

-unraveling

unraveling

As she looked out a the ocean, listening to the waves come in, watching the people walk by, she knew that there was more she wanted, than what had been. “Perhaps this is what we all want” she thought, “that pervasive, intangible something-more that is actually always just beyond the known, and unreachable but also has the power to keep us thirsting for more. “Does thirsting mean discontent?  Not necessarily.

Was this real or imagined?  Was it attainable or simply an illusion we all ended up fooling ourselves into in order to feel better? When we dare to enter the discomfort of the unknown. She knew that the answer was not to run away or deny its existence. The answer was to feel into it and trust it as an integral part of being alive.

So in the midst of recognizing there was much she simply did not know, she knew with certainty in her silent moments, that there were words in her, desiring to be shared.  She often felt surprised by how many words keep manifesting once she sat down to write. [most of it junk she was sure].

She had a theory that everything that was ever meant to be said, had been shared already by someone else ‘out there’ – and she dreaded redundancy.

She  was aware that her armature intentions would likely be dismissed in certain circles. But somehow none of it mattered.

On this day, the voice was so loud she stood up and stretched as the ocean met her.  Her desire was to finally begin writing the stories that were in her.  For no other reason, than to touch the pulse of life within her and to honor the creative impulse that allowed her to plug into the world with all that really mattered – her integrity.

And so she began, and knew that the next best steps would unravel as perfectly as every step before it.  It was simply how life worked – and she trusted it.  As she walked along the beach, she began  painting her intentions:

“I’d like to introduce you to characters I have met, loved, imagined or dabbled with over my life. I hope to leave you feeling a spark of delight, goodness, curiosity, hope, resonance and most of all love.
I dare to dream that through my words, I may leave you with even a dash of inspiration & connection — to this amazing thing we call being human. Join me on my journey… all are welcome”

about self doubt

I want to just have a poetry
wall
Filled with the words I did not make
Why does it feel like an excuse to not write?

My wall will be filled with the words
Of other
People
Who
Inspire
Me

and keep proving to me that it has all been said

Where does a writer
Find
Her
Voice?

Is it in the words of others?
In that place of her deep heart’s longing?
Is there anything unique to bring –of value to the world?
There must  be no?  — Otherwise what is the point?
Life cannot be solely redundant, can it?

For years I have been quoting Viktor Frankl for saying “He who has a why to live, can withstand almost any how” – only to realize it was actually Friedrich Nietzsche who said it and I am not even sure it is the exact quote anymore, except, it is what I kept from the book.

Yet these very words were the foundation to inspire so many – when inspiration was needed.

These very words helped to save Frankl’s life. And in may ways saved mine when I read Frankl’s book “Man’s Search for Meaning”.

I have no idea about so many things.

All I know is that writing makes me feel something real.
It is like an invisible string that releases the unknown to the known.
That potential feeling, always on the edge of our understanding.
That place where spirit meets imagination meets words,
Yet it is not always good when it shows up.

And maybe not always meant to be read.

I fear redundancy

I fear narcissism

I fear being simply awful at it

But those before me encourage posting it

And sharing it

And trusting that invisible hand

That will take the words

And place them at the right place

At the right time

And touch what needs touching

 

[I’d like to think that]

And truth is even if it touched none but the paper

On which it was placed, something happened

And that can be enough

I fear- fear itself, but it has also been my prisoner eluding me from

Answering the voice that helps me reveal the sparks of truth where redundancy evolves into that thing only the one soul placing it out there can do

Reading also makes me thirst for more stories.
[In the end – all we have are our stories.]

And so I write until I can write well. What other choice do I have?

And yes I shall build my wall – from the words of the great ones
Who saved my life over and over again
Both can coexis