Skip to main content

Hello from the Wild-erness

                                                        Photo found Here

Been away from the computer for several days, but have still been showing up for my 15 minutes of writing.

Been a difficult week, however. The mind has been biting at my heels, asking me what I am doing, telling me that surely I am going nowhere with this. Surely, I am doomed to fail, and why am I wasting the time?! Yeah, because the rest of my 15 minute increments in my day are being used so effectively! Right.

The mind can be such a false friend, and yet, such a persuasive shadow. Can follow behind you, until you truly find yourself spooked.

I have been thinking a lot of my grandmother, and how after her death, my dad found notebooks of hers, with unfinished phrases, half-sprouted ideas that seemed to be killed before they ever took their first breath.

I feel her telling me to finish my ideas, not to kill them before they have a chance to breathe their first breath, that giving them life is the hardest part, but once they take their first breath, they take on a life of their own, and then it isn't so hard! I want to trust this. I want to let myself trust in something yearning to follow a thread of movement and freedom, that moves one step at a time, but the past hangs heavy, the DNA feels wound tight with those who would not allow themselves to dance, for fear they were the only ones hearing the music. It does feel somewhat beyond my ability to reckon with--and this is only reinforced by the fact that I am seeing so many struggling to birth themselves! And yet, there are those who do. They seem to have been handed out something that the rest of us weren't. Not struggling with taking up as much of the air as others.

It does seem to highly be hinged on self-worth, and in my case my propensity toward clinging to the past--even a past that I've never experienced. Other artists' pasts--where it feels like they lived in the creative hub together, making shit happen! Artisans took pride in their work, their cathedrals--no snap together buildings. Artists spent time in their parlors oohing and ahhing over art--or even threw tomatoes at it. We just have so many screens these days. We keep them white and clean of tomatoes. We read a few people's ideas about art. We don't dare to share our own ideas or feelings for fear of conflict. We certainly don't create our own. That is for some select few.

I am almost half way. Day 16 is today. I am hoping that this is the uphill of the forty days, and that there will be a turn of feeling, where the mind doesn't have so much power to shut down. I have to believe that when the mind doesn't have so much power, there is an ability for something to take shape.

Wondered today if every race I run will have me bringing up the rear, and why not just accept this?! Why do I need to be special.  And then, I feel the knowing return that it isn't about winning the race, or being special, but exploring an inner landscape that will enrich and enliven my experience of right now. Something that has been calling me from the magic of my childhood landscape, that is only deadened in its inability to be expressed to other adults who have no receptors for it. Those who do, completely get it. But so many of us stop ourselves from ever taking risks, and that has become the standard--it is hard to take on a new standard that unleashes so much fear-- and yet, the risks for the soul have been when I have felt most alive! Most free! But there is always that warning--Thelma and Louise, plummeting to their death. So, even if I am not moving very fast, thank God I am moving at all--because boy, this world has a powerful ability to SHUT YOU DOWN. To make you believe that life really is as empty as tarred over streets, boxes which house stuff and shout out at you to buy it--that you better have it, or something is missing.

I've been trying to access my inner dancer. The part of me that sees the journey as an adventure, every moment as a reason to sway with eyes closed, who feels the vibrating senses as guide, as access to possibility and meaning.

She helps me see rounded corners instead of sharp edges, to feel magic, and to have compassion for the dis-ease of society, rather than wanting to escape all the evidence of broken, which likely is just the reflection of a broken perception.

At the moment I am sitting outside heavy traffic with all kinds of commercial signs blaring at me, shouting for me to know who they are, and to buy their wares. I think there is nothing more that I hate than a mall. And yet, I found myself there today to buy something.

I saw a little baby draped over her mother's arms, and all I could feel was that this child would be brought up to buy things. That the spark in her eyes to buy something that would quickly lose its luster, would be a poor substitute for what could truly fill her hunger, and expand her heartscape, syncing with a deeper beating rhythm, akin to her heart, and like her heart, supported by a streaming life-force: her creations--and how her ability to create would likely be drummed out of her by the repetitive jackhammer of a society so sure that value is bought and sold.

I grew up that way.

I have to think that this is why it is so hard to access my creative self--to trust, to not be so easily distracted. Nobody placed value on what came naturally to me, on creativity. Value was on achievement, copying those people who had already been deemed worthy.

I grew up to have nature and exploration be an exception to the rule, the striving for wealth and security, the promises of artificial entertainment to satisfy my needs, my main aim in life. I remember when I first began to notice urban sprawl as a kid, ugly strip malls rising up, unimaginative and sad. I remember noticing how every town looked just the same. I felt outrun by it. Bulldozed by it.

When I went to Europe, I saw the breathtaking and painstaking architecture of cathedrals side-by side snap together buildings. Seemed nobody could escape lack, quick and thrown together, cheap, even the revered Europe.

I guess I have to honor in me, that the only way to cure my sickness about the state of affairs, is to find meaning from the inside out. This heals the sense of the broken, sad and unimaginative.

So, I think I am looking for a Utopia that exists right here amidst all the noise.

Meaning in the square boxes, as I surround them with love, and they become part of the whole, rather than part of a diseased void that supports people living empty lives.

After all, where you focus expands. And I know there is so much beauty being created. So many modern poets making me look at the world differently.

I hear some cool music on the radio right now. I can feel my inner dancer firing up, finding a little bit of what is hidden springing into life, even among the urban sprawl.

So, if my writing is not showing up for me to actually complete something, maybe it is to just feel into what this world causes me to experience, with all of its contrast, and how best I can return to what is true for me, despite what I think I see out there.

Maybe that is precisely the place I need to play, because maybe there is just as much fun had in shopping and playing on black top. Maybe my heart, nostalgic for a more creative and organic time, I've not even ever lived--in fact only seen artificially represented in films and theatrical reproductions of golden ages, or modern aspects of society trying on the old for size as a new fad--like the hipsters--maybe this is precisely the problem--that the promise of a simpler time of ages past, Utopian ideals, are keeping me from living in the present, of catching up with the dancer within who can find any party agreeable, any corners interesting.

Oh, inner dancer, please don't stop taking me by the hand and showing me what I am missing in this moment, as I am slave to my filters, that keep me poverty stricken. I know there is the promise of finding my heart as those filters fall away. Help me to fall in love with all of it. I so desire to be freed from all of my cages, to get up and energized right here, without the need for escape!

I hear my grandmother saying to stop thinking I am slave to her thinking, and to her time. She tells me to stop the patterns. She points out how many I've already broken free from.

Maybe she knows. Maybe it is time to be here now, in this exact moment, and to see how none of the fences and sharp corners I see,  have any truth to hold me away from my very own dance party.


Popular posts from this blog

Here With You

Photo by Daria Obymaha on Sinking lips into your tiny round cheeks, I'm home. Holding your tiny head to my heart, caressing my chin to your downy baby 'chicken fluff' we'll come to call it later, I'm home. Taking in your baby magic scent, I'm home. Pressing nose to nose, forehead to forehead, staring wide-eyed into each other's eyes, I'm home. Toting little bum and dangling legs around my middle, I'm home. Filled with purpose as you point where to go, what you see, I'm home. Your eyes, new windows to a world I thought I knew, I'm home. Holding you with fever, picking you up when you fall, I'm home. Navigating the years between, boxes of your firsts, every paint brush and pen stroke a miracle, I'm home. Saving pottery penguins, turtles, shiny red roses, a burrito with all the fixings immortalized in clay, I'm home. Kid sister fruit and craft stand on the corner, change clinking in coin purse, mag


Photo by Ben Herbert on I’m standing on a cliff overlooking the water’s edge. The sky is present, hanging there in its vastness, holding this moment with symphonic strains of gray and electric buzz. Watching, suspended, sensing. I see to both sides of me vast white cliffs carved out by relentless grasping of the ocean extending down the coastline. The earth where I am standing up above gives just the right yield and welcome, with its soft grass and dainty yellow flowers, falsely giving the impression of delicacy, when anyone can see that they are hardy to withstand the harshness of forces here. There is an undeniable tightness of gravity here, pinning me down, tugging at me, slowing down my step. I feel as if this force could just sweep me away with the littlest of a flick, like an ant off the table. It screams danger while it beckons. My life had been recently taking on new grander design dimensions when this place and I met. Dating a new man, after being a singl

Partaking of the Fruit

Photo by Anya Vasilieva on What I most struggle with in creative writing is that there are some ideas that just feel like they belong in the ether, in the natural born clouds. They aren’t meant to be pinned down, and every time I try to pin them down into a practical form on a page, I wound them a little bit, and must throw them back up into the ether for repair, to restore their more nebulous characteristics. This content isn’t supposed to have legs and weight, and to make noise when it walks, or to have such things as a name and defining characteristics. Rather, just whiffs of possibility that hint at an undercurrent of parallel worlds so vast and amazing as to put any Tolkien or Rowling to shame. Its just supposed to hang there, ripe for plucking, but the plucker beware. The fruit bruises easily. And yet, there are those books that seem to pin down something that doesn’t maim the central cast of characters, and in fact broadens the material into something that change