Why I write.
I write to dive in past the shallow surface of life.
I write to remember who I was, who I am and who it is possible for me to be.
Writing is a thread that ties my experiences together and reveals something deeper.
I write to dislodge rage, to soothe anxiety, to revel in joy, to ease shame, to immerse myself in the beautiful chaos of being human, in this body, as this woman, at this time in history that feels as if it is teetering on some huge precipice.
Writing keeps me sane. Or saner amidst the chaos within and without.
If I couldn’t write, I would paint huge sprawling canvases and petite fragile ones and every size in between using line, shape, color and texture to connect with the world around me. Crescents of paint dried under my nails, smudged on my cheek, scraps of paper glued to the delicate bone on the side of my wrist.
Or perhaps I’d weave notes into the air from a piano or guitar, creating a cocoon of sound to both comfort and liberate.
That, right there, is why I write.
It both comforts and liberates me.
I seek solace on the page and I find liberation when the mask is finally shattered and my raw whole self is there, just as I am.
If I couldn’t write or paint or create music, perhaps my creativity would just be me, fully embracing each messy, painful, blissful moment of my life. Writing is my doorway to living from that space.
Writing keeps me awake and present to all of it.
There’s no place to hide when I write.
I’m present to the light and the dark, to the angst and the bliss, to the lies and the truth, the heavy and light, the calm and chaos, the fear and boldness, the mundane and profound.
Me, awake and present to all of it.
That’s why I write.
How much did I write today? (time, words, pages)
What did I work on?
3 Morning Pages
3 WYA pages
A blog post
Tired, brain foggy
Taught three yoga classes so my attention was spread thin today.
Making the time anyway, no matter how I felt.
I show up to the page daily to keep the creative momentum going.