Without Apology.

Okay…so this is a little anxiety-producing.

As part of the Write Yourself Alive Challenge, I wrote a rambling meditation, then recorded it and now…gulp…am sharing it here. But, hey, this was part of the reason I joined this challenge—to break the hell out of my comfort zone.

Without Apology

This is a rambling meditation through the silky seaweed of thoughts

undulating through the dark shadowy spaces of my mind.

Mining the mind for what is truly there,

not merely what I think is there.

Diving below that still surface of

polite thoughts of please and thank you and,

most insidious of all, I’m sorry.

Those apologies of the soul, for the soul.

Apologizing for taking up too much space,

for saying the wrong thing on the outside though it felt so right on the inside.

Slipping into the crevice between apologizing and owning.

Owning the space inside my head,

inside my heart.

Daring to disturb the mirror-like surface with

one pebble of truth

and allowing those ripples to flow wherever they may go.

Watching them extend far beyond the safety of polite

without apology.

 

WYA Challenge: Day 8

WYA

Before I write, I feel edgy. Restless.

Still , I often resist the page.

I resist the words that long to spill out of me. Words that have gotten lodged in my body, leaving me feeling on edge, fidgety, like I want to crawl out of my skin.

I ignore the page and instead clean or do laundry or scroll through Facebook or call a friend, trying to dislodge the words indirectly. But they are too deep. Only the precise motion of the pen across the page can excise them.

There. A word is shaved off a rib. Another coaxed out from the tender space behind a knee. More peeled away from the wet meaty flesh of my heart. Still more sifted out of the blood flowing through my body behind my shin.

Each word that is freed from the body and captured on the page leaves me feeling both lighter and more grounded.

It’s not the words that create the heaviness but the battle with resistance. All the restlessness that I try to channel into cleaning or organizing doesn’t touch the depth of the resistance. Those tasks merely mask that trapped energy, mask those words that have gotten stuck and no amount of busy work will lure them out.

Only the gentle movement of breath and the steady motion of my pen across the page will release the pent up energy that bubbles just below the surface of my soul.

The effort of writing is always worth the ease of being that follows.

The transformation is almost instant. With each word that escapes from the end of my pen, the easier I breathe, the more content I feel in my skin.

After I write, I am more present.

After I write, I am more me.

•   •   •   •   •   •

Creativity Check-in

How much did I write today?

2 hours

 

What did I work on?

Morning Pages

Healthy Living Journal

WYA Dig Deeper and Writing Prompt

WIP

 

Times of day:

 

M

morning, late afternoon, and night

Mood: 

Eager to show up to the work.

 

Greatest Obstacle:

MY WIP feels like a giant jumble of puzzle pieces that have no edges and are all the same color.

 

Greatest Strength:

Carefully reading through what I have, chapter by chapter, noting the balance of current story versus back story, making notes of questions alone the way.

 

Creative affirmation:

I tend to my writing daily and it flourishes even when it feels dormant.

 

Write Yourself Alive: A 30 Day Challenge

WYA Challenge: Day 4

WYA

“Good Writing is supposed to evoke sensations in the reader—not the fact that it is raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.” ~ E.L. Doctorow

The house is quiet when I walk in from work. But his truck is in the driveway, so he must be here. As I shrug off my coat I see him in the kitchen. Oh, how sweet. He is cooking dinner. Cones of light shine down from the vaulted ceiling, steam swirling upward, quickly dissipating. The rest of the house is dark and I feel like I am watching a play. The gentle clanking of metal against metal and the hiss of hot oil echo in the room.

It’s always in slow motion when I remember this. It felt like slow motion as it played out. Maybe a part of me knew what was coming and tried to fend it off any way I could.

When he sees me, he turns the burners down and walks toward me, telling me that M. called. I remember thinking it was odd that he called instead of H.

But mostly I am focused on his face. I  haven’t seen this face before. We’ve been married for only a few years. I realize there is so much more for us to learn about each other.

When he reaches me, his hands wrap gently, oh so tenderly around my arms. I still have no idea what is going on. No idea what he is about to say.

But when the words leave his mouth, they feel inevitable.

“B. is dead.”

Inevitable.

But not true.

A part of me knows.

A part of me repels the idea. The words.

“No, she’s not.”

He nods, not wanting to say it again.

I shake my head, wrapping my own arms tightly around my body, as if to keep it from imploding, chanting the same words over and over.

No, she’s not.

No she’s not.

Noshesnot. Noshesnot.

Until they no longer even sound like words.

Until they are merely sounds vomiting from this new, deep, raw sad of part of me I didn’t even know existed.

•   •   •   •   •   •

Creativity Check-in

How much did I write today?

2 1/2 hours

 

What did I work on?

Morning Pages

Healthy Living Journal

WYA Dig Deeper and Writing Prompt

 

Times of day:

3:30 5:30 in my nook

5:45 – 6:15 at my computer

 

Mood: 

A little tired. Had a lazy day. Too much TV. Left me mentally sluggish. And I waited until too late in the day to work again. Mornings are prime time for me.

 

Greatest Obstacle:

Put off writing until my mental energy was oh so low.

 

Greatest Strength:

I showed up anyway and wrote.

 

Creative affirmation:

Each day that I write is day that I didn’t quit.

 

Write Yourself Alive: A 30 Day Challenge

WYA Challenge: Day 2

WYA

My epitaph:

“Awake and present to it All, she wrote into the stars and into the earth, into her heart and into her gut—eyes open, heart open, mind open, pen poised.”

 

Creativity check-in:

How much did I write today:

3 hours

 

What I worked on:

Morning pages

WYA Challenge: Dig Deeper, Writing prompt and something inspired by the Writing tip

My blog

My YA novel

 

Time(s) of day:

2:30 – 5:30

 

Mood:

Tired (first day of teaching 2 early morning yoga classes)

Excited and distracted by the number of views a blog post has been getting

 

Greatest obstacle:

Settling into to work on my novel. I saved it for last and my energy and focus were spent. Think I need to start with it tomorrow.

 

Greatest strength:

Allowing some painful shit to come up in the writing today.

 

Creative affirmation:

I am strong enough to be present with whatever comes up in my writing.

 

Write Yourself Alive: A 30 Day Challenge

She Shows Up.

Image found on Pinterest via Free People Blog.

Image found on Pinterest via Free People Blog.

The snow slants to the frozen earth outside her window.

A wind comes and disrupts the precision with which the snow descends, scattering those individual particles of frozen atmospheric water vapor frozen awry, off the path.

Her path is on the snowy white of the paper beneath her hand. Or the glaring white of the screen on her desktop. Both waiting to be filled with the “breathings of her heart.”

They don’t care about the quality of the words, of the sentences, of the stories. They only wait for the presence of the words, sentences and stories she needs to tell in any given moment.

Sitting at her desk, her dog curled up behind her, the silence broken only by the soft hum of the space heater at her feet, she writes.

She claims this time as her own.

Claims the space as her own.

The space around her.

The space within her.

She claims the page.

The words.

She claims it all.

But mostly she claims herself as a writer.

And don’t ask if you can buy her books on amazon or find them in the library as if having her words bound and packaged and marketed for human consumption is the only proof available to back up such an audacious claim.

That kind of question diminishes her path.

Diminishes her claim.

And she won’t be diminished.

Each time she shows up to the page, she stakes her claim on this path of writing.

Of language.

Of stories.

The path is slanted like the snow outside her window.

It is easily blown off course.

It is filled with mud

And much

And potholes

And vast swaths of desert

And frozen tundra.

But she shows up.

Not for the so-called validation of having a book published but

because she must.

If she doesn’t show up

to the page,

she doesn’t show up

to her

Self.

This was written in response to Day 11 of the #WriteYourselfAlive challenge.