I’ve forgotten again, already, the way I get petty and brittle, all winter leaves long shed and lost of fall’s fresh fragrance. 10075728205

I’ve forgotten again, already, that I start to lash out, obsess over things I cannot steer, drop mindless into arguments that I know have no point. Or at least no point that can be heard.  I get spun like one of those windmills behind an abandoned warehouse.  All that gyration with no purpose.

I’ve forgotten again, already, just in the few weeks when I stepped back to focus on family and holidays, food and the time of the darkest days that when I do not write I do not breathe well.

When I do not write I do not see well or think well . . . . live well neither.

I cannot fully explain it, no matter how many times I read other writers saying the same thing, no matter how many times I return to this idea and try to cloak it in color and words.

Something happens – something like meditation, like yoga nidra, like deep, quiet prayer.  Something like rest but with more energy – yellow and bright and the deepest blue gray of ocean or whale skin.  Something settles in me, grounds me like my toes sunk deep into loamy soil, like the weight of my little brother’s chubby hand on my back when he steadies himself in our childhood sandbox.

Writing is not life – life is gift. But writing – in my body, in my soul, in all of me – is what makes life  . . . it turns me back to what is most true, most right. Every time.

Now, I remember the way my lungs drop toward my belly button, the way the petty, the unneeded fights sink to the rear of my mind.

Now, I remember what it is to breath and celebrate . . . and cry with deep, deep sorrow.

Now, now I remember.

What does writing do for you?

 

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