Some days I release my thoughts in poetry, sometimes just poetic thoughts. My sister told me once I think in syncopation. It may be true. I like the offbeat places in life and play with it at times.

The piece below, written as we inched into the New Year, is like that and suited my mood.

I get told how young I look and act, but time passes, things change. Some days, I worry about the future. We age, life fades, fears arise. Other days determined, I announce I’m 20 still and all life’s possibilities are mine to own. For now, poetic words can have their day. Let’s see what spring will bring my way.

***

Christmas, tinsel coming down, wreathes and ornaments packed away. The busyness behind us now. Glittery moments come and gone. Welcome at first, the season has lost its shine.

Like a little angel, I wobble and wait, halo askew. I know I will be boxed up too, packed away, and left to hope on another year to shine again. The day may come you tire of me, my glory lost. I dread that day.

Each year I cringe a little more, lest you hesitate, your hand withdraw. Excitement comes, you reach for me. It brightens as I’m set in place. Again a crown upon your tree.

Nanowrimo – National Novel Writing Month – a 50,000 word run at completing a novel in one month. Last year I participated, even though I don’t write novels, and keep mostly to very short poetry and prose pieces that I’m still learning to identify … are they essays, short story, micro story, random thoughts? Happily designated as ‘my little pieces’, they are learning to creep out into the broader world.

Doing Nanowrimo both years surprised me. 2018, I tried a novel, moved my target three times, then quit 2,000 words short of my final goal of 25, 000. Typing hurt too much. Injuries old and new get in the way. It was hard acknowledging I had to choose between my goal and my health. I’m learning it’s okay to adjust goals. It’s important to guard my health. I have written poetry and other pieces using less than 100 words. With the lofty goal of 8,000 for my first Nanowrimo goal, I surprised myself by achieving it early in the month, so increased it to 15,000, and upon reaching that again upped it to 25,000. Without the pain, I could have reached it. My health was worth more, and that was hard to acknowledge.

2019, I set new goals, sent poems and short pieces out several places. I was adamant there would be no Nanowrimo for me this year. I don’t do long writing. But, true to form, I surprised myself by beginning a memoir in the summer. Prompted by friends saying write my journey, put my words on the page. September and October, I wrote and shared. I read what I had to several writing groups who encouraged me to continue.

Then, it happened. A writer friend prodded me into joining the local Nano group.

You’re writing anyway, why not keep writing but join … for the fun, for the challenge, for encouragement.

Yes. Why not? I might add a few hundred or even a few thousand words to what I had, but I would not push myself. I didn’t push, but I did write. I wrote a lot … near 30,000 words to add to what I’d done. I’m sitting on 50,000 editable words and more to come. I had no idea there would be so many in so few months.

Doing this memoir pulled up stress from the past, but it’s healing and a challenge, and I like challenges. I like numbers. Watching them grow. I’m a good saver, enjoy the accumulation of things. Nanowrimo and watching the word count took me back to number drawings we did as kids … connected the dots … each one numbered for us to follow and in the end, an image, the surprise (which really wasn’t).

Part way through Nanowrimo, I realized I was letting the image come, seeing my life, letting the story appear. It’s not 100% yet. It will have more revisions and stages of growth. But I’m not fighting it as much, I’m learning to let the story appear, let the memoir teach me, say what it was and what it will become, who I was and who I will become.

Why am I writing? It may be as simple as that – learning to find myself in the story.

Memory. Memoir. It’s an interesting journey.

I began a journey in memoir this summer. Three months in feels much longer and a lot harder than I’m prepared for every day.

Putting words to page isn’t hard. At present, I have 27,000 words which may realistically be around 20,000 when I weed out repeats, notes to self, and edit what I keep. For someone whose natural pace is 500 to 1,000 words, that is amazing. I practice telling myself that and leave room for the book to tell me its plan.

At the same time, I’m reading memoirs and a book by Mary Karr on writing it.

I spoke to someone recently whose family just released a joint memoir that based itself around journal entries. I could do it too; journaled for years. Something else is the stuck point.

There are good people in this world. I’m lucky to know some good ones. They challenge me. They encourage me. One told me I was like a poster her daughter had that said something like, “A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and can sing it back to you when you’ve forgotten the words.”

I thought I knew what she meant, but years later I’m just starting to understand about the song and what it means.

Being a writer means a lot of alone time. Being alone, I have a lot to give. Except I don’t really, because I fill my time with two jobs. Neither is full time, not even together, but somehow they own seven days each week. Still I write. Weave words in and around other things.

I fill my time with volunteering; in mental health, a good idea. I fill it with music, singing and occasionally guitar when I bother to practice. Weaving around these, I wrote a few songs and edited some old ones this year. I’m good at editing. It’s kind of like real life, a lot of adding too much in then cutting things out. Yeah. I know that place.

One odd thing about writing that hits my particular funny bone is that it’s possible to enjoy writing about being sad. I’m not sure how I feel about that fact. It reminds me too much of times I was accused of taking that truth a little too literally.

You enjoy being miserable.

No. I don’t. I enjoy the things and people that make me happy. I have many of those in my life lately and I appreciate them. Friends are there when I need them. There’s much to enjoy in life.

Yes, I feel the extremes deeply. I write about them, talk about it and share them. It doesn’t mean I enjoy feeling bad. I am willing to own my feelings, and let them exist inside the places I love writing. I expect doing that has saved me a time or two when grief, fear or depression raise their heads and turn their hungry eyes my way.

Being alone, being a writer, knowing how to use my words and editing skills well in dark moments … that has its finer points.

There is value in writing time.

Identity finds us, sometimes slowly, sometimes soon. I am one who waited ’till it almost passed me by, yet lingered, so I’ll linger still, beneath its quiet ministry, its tender forming of my will. Aah, gentle breathes extend, reach to find a momentary peace, and stretch to fill the empty void, awaiting words not yet employed, who in the wings anticipate their leap at fate, their turn to lift a heart to cry, a smile to form, ideas to fly. As words release, extended, shared, my spirit laughs to form this prayer. Hope is found in who I am.

Growth comes from leaning in, from letting things be, from allowing others also to feed me.

Last night I was given a beautiful gift of poetry; an introduction to Dorianne Laux. I read her poem “The Shipfitter’s Wife” and felt it’s touch. I too am a tactile processor. Her words understood my need to know.

It’s well worth the read.

http://poetry.auburn.edu/featured-poems/the-shipfitters-wife.html

I completed several pieces of writing in May. One went to an online magazine, the other to a poetry contest. A number more poems were written, I began organizing some poetry for a book I’d like to do this year, and I began editing a short story from last year’s NANOWRIMO.

Illogically, I felt bad that I did ‘nothing’ as I’m very conscious of neglecting this blog. That reasoning is more typical than I like, but I’m growing into a place where I see myself more clearly. When I write it out I can see how much I got done.

The truly hard work of writing has to do with the story I tell myself about myself rather than any I write for publication. Slowly, I’m fighting myself less, listening better, understanding story; I may get the hang of this after all.

Far more important are the laughter lines ….

Names and identity were a topic of conversation today on a walk with a good friend.  She is very wise and patient.  Why I have been blessed with such good friends is a mystery that i’m learning to embrace.  Another word of the day was ‘wonder’.  Said by second friend in a simple context, it hit me in a similar way to the word ‘mystery’.  Too long, I’ve loved wonder and mystery but demanded I be in a place of knowledge and understanding.  I know the reasons; at least some of them.  Honestly, on the journey through discomfort to joy, they’re irrelevant.

Far more important are the laughter lines I’m forming, the people who help me live fully while I put them there, and the daily opportunities to do so.

This year has some intentional and unintentional places of discomfort. I don’t need to pretend that I enjoy them. Acknowledge them, lean in, let balance re-establish itself. Be honest. Be kind. Be willing to find myself in the moment and not back away.  It’s the only way I’ll truly know and be who I am.  Breathe. It’s enough.

 

Language and Place.

Learning Guitar

Learning to Play

Learning to Breathe – long, slow, deep breaths of joy

Life Inhaled

Life Unfurled

Life reaching out – laying the possibilities before me

Dec 9, 2018