the words just aren't coming...

I know I should be writing. I’ve missed another Sunday Scribblings, another Poetry Thursday, and even my own idea of starting One Word Wednesdays has left me empty this week. The thoughts fly in and out of my head, spinning and swirling, getting tangled in one another. But the truth of it all is that I just haven’t felt like writing. And so I am trying to be okay with that. Some days I feel like writing, some days I don’t. Yet even as I try to flow with the instincts and desires living inside me, I find myself feeling guilty. Guilty for not writing more, for not putting more words out into the world. Guilty for fear that all of you will think I have forgotten about you, when in reality, I carry pieces of you all with me each day.

And I wish that I had a better reason for my recent lack of words. A better reason than just not feeling like writing. Perhaps I do…perhaps it is worries of recent health concerns, or the lack of direction I feel now that school is out for 2 months. Perhaps my lack of words is my evasion, my avoidance of admitting my worries, my concerns, my felt lack of direction. Or perhaps it is truly just that I haven’t felt like writing.
Whatever the reason, please know that I have not forgotten you all, my lovely tribe of cyber sisters.

I am leaving soon for the holiday. With excitement at seeing my best friend and then spending a few days with the family, I shall set off soon. Hopefully as I stand on the Georgia coast, I will find the inspiration, the words, so that I may again find my writing flowing as freely as the spinning thoughts that overwhelm my head.

I hope you all have a wonderful and safe 4th of July! Until next week…

beginning of a love affair...

There is something incredibly soothing about the feel of wet clay against your hands. As the wheel spins, swirls, turns, your thoughts begin to slow their own spinning, swirling, turning. With your hands cupped around a small mass of wet gray clay, the world fades into the background. The teacher’s instructors to keep “centering” take hold, not only of your hands upon the silky texture of the clay, but of the internal chaos as well. The tumbling of thoughts ebbs, breathing slows, and in that moment, you become one with your creation. As the clay becomes centered, you can feel your own self becoming centered. The worries, the anxieties, everything else ceases to matter as you become immersed in an act of love between the strength of your hands and the fragility of the clay. You find strength where you didn’t know it existed. The typical shakiness of your hands vanishes and they hold steady, strong, molding and shaping and centering. The rain beats down heavily outside the door to the studio and you can literally feel the cleansing of the earth. Your own hands immersed in water, bathing the clay. Your hands become the rain, the clay becomes the earth. With each motion, you are cleansing, you are being cleansed, the world is being washed anew. As my skin and spirit became immersed in the act of creation, so began my love affair with clay and wheels and kilns…my initiation into the world of pottery.

One Word Wednesday....Echo

Echo…

reverberations against my soul
crossing endless miles
the melodies of Nature’s song
and I feel the vibration.

not the canyon of greatest magnitude
but the footsteps, two pairs, one pair
unworn paths come full circle
and I see my life mirrored

catapulting off gray cement walls
guarding danger, trapping fear
four, six, eight sets of steel metal doors
and I force deafness upon my ears

bitter words of cruelty, deception
haunting, burning through the years
freedom only found when
I hear and then I release

Echo
the sound of the earth
footsteps of a life
danger and fear and cruelty
and I let go
Echo

technically challenged...but here's your One Word Wednesday

So I spent a large portion of last night surfing the internet in an attempt to figure out how to work all the technical aspects of blogging. I managed to set up a new blog page for "One Word Wednesday" and then accidentally lost it. I had no luck in figuring out how to make a pretty banner to adorn the page, and even less luck in deciphering how to put up links, etc.
So there you have it...I am officially technologically, and technically, challenged. Until I can recruit some help in this department, I will post a prompt here on Wednesdays for those of you interested in participating.
Today's word for Wednesday is....

Echo

inspired by Sunday Scribblings...

I’ve never been the biggest fan of Sundays. When I was a child and teenager, Sundays meant waking up early, sitting through a sermon that I would often tune out, and then the dreaded anticipation of another Monday. Since I’ve lived on my own, Sundays have most often entailed a long days worth of work, constantly running on my feet, serving people that often see me as nothing more than a servant. Sunday work has been equated with being a servant with no real identity. Ironic, I suppose. A servant on Sunday…maybe that was God’s intention all along. In any case, regardless of dreaded early mornings or bewildering sermons or long work shifts, Sunday have always been the precursor for Mondays. And as we all know, Mondays start the work week (at least for most people, though I’m not really included in that group). Mondays are the beginning of another long week, more long hours of work or school or both. And so there is it…I’ve never been a big fan of Sundays….until recently.

When my dear friend Megg and Laini started Sunday Scribblings, I was thrilled at the prospect of being given a prompt each week. A phrase or question that would allow my inner creative juices to flow, my imagination to run wild, the essence of my soul to emerge in words upon a blank screen. And Sunday Scribblings has indeed allowed me such freedom. It has brought me to tears, shaken my insides, left me confused and frustrated and also beautifully inspired. Thank you Megg and Laini…you have given so many of us a gift. Now, instead of dreading Sundays, I look forward with excitement, wondering and waiting for the topic to arrive. Wondering what feelings will be evoked, what stories will spring forth from the recesses of my mind, my heart, my spirit…and those of others. I wait to read the words that evoke such strong emotions, making me want to reach across oceans and mountains, plains and deserts. Words that make me want to bathe these souls in love, in comfort, in admiration, in pride.

As a result of the inspiration and beauty that Sunday Scribblings has brought into my life, I would like to begin an additional arena of writing prompts. One of my best friends and I used to work on our writing skills and creativity by giving each other a single word and then allowing the other to write for a set amount of time. It was poetry that we were writing in those days (and nights), but I would love to use such prompts for any form of writing. And I would also love to take the time limits out of the equation…just one word and writing of whatever is evoked by that word.

Unfortunately, I have absolutely minimal knowledge when it comes to the technical aspects of linking to other blogs, etc. And so I am sending this out into the world, hoping that one of you may want to join me on this quest to begin… “One Word Wednesdays”.
If you are interested in helping with this new site for writing prompts, please send me an email.

I hope you all have had a wonderful Monday!

Beds...endless nights and endless thoughts...

Three straight nights of twelve hour shifts. A body filled with exhaustion, confusion about the day, the time. The inner workings tangled in a web of daylight and glowing moons. The road becomes endless before my strained eyes and I dream of my bed, the plush scarlet comforter, the soft black sheets cooling my overworked skin. My mind drifts to other worlds, other places, other times, anywhere that will keep me engaged until the long road ends. I think back to the bed with the velvety Asian comforter, the one with the old, weathered mattresses, and the nights alone, thinking too much, crying too much, finally finding myself in the comfort of my aloneness. My mind wanders across two states and three condos, into rooms with skylights that made it impossible to nap at two in the afternoon, nights spent lying beside a man. A man with whom I shared a name, a home, a life. A man whom I never truly knew, who gradually taught me of the fragility of trust and love, of the importance, the necessity of finding and loving myself. Of the need to keep myself safe. I think of the aqua and gold satin comforter that covered the bed, and me, in the months when the depression was at its worst. When the medications were leaving my body, slowly, more day by day. When I hid beneath those ugly covers, hoping that the world would stop turning, that the tornadoes ravaging the city outside would take me away in the whirlwind of my own black spiraling tunnel. Days when I sat on the roof of that old Victorian home, pondering what would happen if I jumped into the busy street below. I don’t want to think about those days, all that pain, from which emergence was impossible. I have lived that pain, that hopelessness, and now I think of all the anonymous comforters, adorned with large, bright flowers, or paisley patterns of burgundy and brown. The comforters that held my traveling soul, offering me excitement in foreign lands, beauty unbeknown before the day, the night, the moment. I think of a bed in Santa Fe, an adobe fireplace in the corner, a beautiful night of eating chocolate frosted cookies and drinking shiraz in bed with a soul mate. A bed in New Orleans after a night of drinking and gambling, the romance of the city as intoxicating as the wine that flowed endlessly. My thoughts run wildly as I remember beds in so many cities, in other countries, in exotic or romantic or serene places. As I remember beds shared with childhood friends and best friends and soul mates. Beds shared as new friendships were formed, as new relationships evolved. As I remember the nights of comfort, of passion, of grief, of love. As I climb into my bed in the darkness of tonight, I will keep remembering and I will embrace the comfort of this bed, this night, these moments.

Poetry Thursday - night shift

It's easy at 5 a.m. to get lost. Lost among the streets in a widespread city of towering buildings that all begin to look the same. Lost among the thoughts that accompany a night filled with too many tragedies, too much intensity, too much lost hope. It's easy to find yourself lost among the madness of the night, the detailed delusions recounted, the screams of fear from voices that do not exist in our reality. It's easy to get lost.
After more than a year of these periodic nights, I don't allow myself to get lost at 5 a.m. Sadness and anger still strike their simultaneous chords, but the melody is what I force myself to lose. I carry compassion with me, the passenger on my right side as I traverse mile after mile, from one hospital to the next. But at 5 a.m. I must bid farewell to the agony of others' pain, to the torment of a full moon. At 5 a.m., my passenger and I struggle to keep our eyes open, but only to see the road. My ears are still strained, but only to hear the melody that comforts me in the stillness of the early morning.
At the end of the night, with the first light of day breaking above me, I come home, climb into bed, and drift into a dreamless sleep.

~night shift~

3 p.m.
last I checked
6:30 a.m.
a long drive home
from hospitals
more than one
screams echoing
off stark white walls
anger and silence
warning of death
the radio played
another top 20
I switched the dial
Spanish language
melody of love
I did not know
the words being sung
the future of my patients
only the moment
the melody
the long road home.

Today I write...

Today I write
words of confusion and passion
words that bleed with memories
of nights under endless skies
and endless stars,
nights of endless love.

Today I write
and the words flow freely
unlike the feelings
locked within me,
my soul battling the world
of reality and guilt
remorse and “what ifs”.

Today I write
of journeys traveled
of comrades lost
and remnants of life moments
that hang dangerously
by single threads, pulling
threatening to break
and be lost from me forever.

Today I write
hoping that somehow
these words will ease
the pain and fear,
the anxious nerves that traverse
my veins, my skin
that shakes with ambivalence,
my stomach that aches
with a battle it cannot win.

Today I write
and each word
each line
is like the erupting
of a volcano, lava flowing
hot and fiery, destroying that
which it touches,
words of fire, of ice,
of impenetrable cages
binding the heart and mind.

Today I write
reminded of too many yesterdays
the uncertainty of tomorrows
knowing that today
I must write.

Sunday Scribblings - Mystery

Life is filled with mysteries. The future holds nothing but mystery. Even that which we think we know, that which we anticipate and hope for, is nothing more than the merging of our desires with the reality of mystery. The present is mysterious. This very moment, there is so much we do not understand, so much that we cannot understand. And the past…some may argue that the past is the only certainty we have. But I think the past holds the greatest mysteries of all. All the “what ifs” and “what might have beens” leave us stranded on abruptly ended paths, wondering where this or that path might have eventually led. And we will never know. The past has departed, replaced by the present, anticipating the future. But the mysteries of the past will never die.

Every time we take a walk through the memories of our past, we encounter the mysteries of our lives. Each moment of the past has already been lived, each one unalterable and undeniable. And yet do we not wonder? Do we not, at times, find ourselves retracing steps of previous paths and wondering where that path might have led? The endings of those paths will never be known. We can wonder, we can imagine, but we can never know. It is, in fact, this lack of awareness, this inability to know, that is the beauty of mysteries. If we could know the mysteries of our pasts, or our futures for that matter, how would we ever be able to live fulfilled in the present?

I once sat down and tried to imagine the mysteries of my abruptly ended paths. I even wrote what I imagined to be those endings, or perhaps beginnings. Of course my words were nothing more than the manifestation of my imagination. They were not words of truth or understanding. They were merely words of curiosity. But those words helped me to accept the mysteries of my past. I still wonder sometimes what my life would be like now had I decided to continue with this or that relationship, had I chosen to attend a different school at a different time, had I moved to California as once planned. But despite the wondering, despite the mysteries of my past, I know that I am right where I am supposed to be on the path of my life. There will be many more questions, many more unknowns, and many more mysteries.

Mysteries make for a life of unknown possibilities.

Poetry Thursday - "chasing feelings"

Inspired by observation of strangers...

~chasing feelings~

Words overheard,
intoxication driving emotions
as one hurried ahead,
the other behind,
an attempt to end the chase
and the emotions.
On a walkway
past a bar,
tucked in dark shadows,
where melodies and voices
emerged through panes
of glass, through doors
inviting smiles and songs,
laughter and whispered dreams.
Doors that opened
the flow of red wine,
blue liquor, dark beer.
Songs of emotions
but hurry,
hurry,
the feelings are not
for tonight.

Sunday Scribblings - Earliest Memory

It’s Sunday and that means it’s time for scribblings, time to focus on the topic chosen for this week, time to crawl back into the recesses of my life and dredge up memories of times when youth and innocence overwhelmed the world of reality. I must admit that initially I did not want to write on this week’s topic. I know my earliest memory and it really isn’t all that fascinating to read about. Additionally, as I’ve just spent the past semester intently studying psychoanalysis, I personally have no desires left to reach back into a period of my history and reminisce about a Christmas when I was three years old. Talking about earliest memories is not such a simple task for those in the field of psychotherapy. Along with the memories come analyses of every possible meaning of those memories. Why was that particular memory the first one I was able to recall? What is the significance of the people that played a role in the making of that memory? How was I feeling during the time of that memory, and what was it that evoked those emotions? You see…earliest memories are a dangerous territory in my field. Consequently, my initial response to this week’s prompt was not one of enthusiasm. I honestly considered just letting this Sunday pass me by. I then considered writing a post of a completely different subject. Only after several hours and repeated deliberation did I decide to truly explore the irritation and hesitation I was feeling rather than ignoring it. Instead of allowing the negative emotions to block my words, I have decided to share a bit of my earliest memory and a bit of the present emotions that this memory evokes.

The year was 1983. Technically it was winter, though true winters rarely grace the South with their presence. It was the first house I ever lived in, a brick house with white columns on the front porch and a black metal mailbox at the end of the driveway. The interior décor still sung with melodies of the 70’s, with shag carpeting, a plush orange chair, and splashes of retro green and yellow scattered about. The Christmas tree was decorated and positioned in its sacred spot, though I have only vague memories of where that spot actually was. I am quite sure there was the usual abundance of gifts for my sister and me, though my memory involved only one gift. This gift was thoughtful and fun, but apparently not what my three-year-old self was wanting. To my mother’s great dismay, I told the gift-giver that I wanted something different. And indeed, sweet giver that she was, she exchanged my original gift and let me pick out the gift I had wanted.

The irony is that this memory shaped much of my life in the years to come. Openly speaking my mind (or heart) was sacrificed at the expense of being a “polite and well-behaved” child in my early years. But my silence ceased with the arrival of adolescence, when my voice knew no limits and every thought was freed in utter opposition of my childhood.

My inherent nature has always been to speak the truth, even when that truth doesn’t quite seem appropriate. Of course, I’ve learned as the years have passed when I can embrace my true nature and allow my words the freedom to fly. Certainly, there are times when such behavior is just not a viable option. But I also have learned that my original boundaries regarding speaking my feelings versus keeping my mouth shut began a bit blurred. Though my mother’s efforts to teach me proper manners were very well-intentioned, my three-year-old mind got somewhat muddled. Even now, I question myself at times. There are times when I openly voice my opinion, times when truth flows from my lips with such vivacity that only later do I stop to think that perhaps I should have turned on my inner censor before speaking. But there are also many times that I have kept my mouth tightly shut, rigidly holding in every ounce of feeling and life in the fears that my words will result in harm to others or myself. With those moments, I find myself later wondering what suffering has occurred at the expense of silence.

Ultimately, it is all a matter of balance. But balance is quite a complicated concept for a three-year-old.

Though my earliest memory is not itself heavily laden with emotions or drama, the lessons learned from this memory have both haunted and enlightened me. And maybe my own controversy with allowing myself the freedom to speak has nothing to do with this memory. But certainly now, in retrospect, my earliest memory holds a life-long lesson. A lesson of balance, of the importance of honesty, of the beauty of innocence, and of the origins of my inherent nature to let my words flow freely.

reading out loud...not just for poetry

I loved this week's totally optional prompt to read poetry out loud. My love for this prompt can be traced back throughout many, many years of reading everything (not just poetry) out loud. My best friend used to tease me about reading to the birds and the bugs and the grass in the backyard. But it's not just the birds and the bugs and the grass. I read to the dogs, to the trees, to anyone who happens to be within listening distance. I read freely and openly and out loud. And I love the whole experience of it all.

There is something comforting and inspiring about hearing words of wisdom or tragedy or beauty roll off your own tongue, infusing every ounce of air around you with the pure emotions of the words. You feel the words differently as they resonate within your chest and then free themselves into the expanse of open air around you. You find beauty in the pure sound of the words, the syllables, the pronunciations, the inflection of the voice...beauty that is more than just the meaning of the word itself.

As the words form on my lips, as they vibrate in my throat, as they escape the inhabitance of my body and find release in a greater beauty beyond...as I read out loud the words of poets and fiction writers and autobiographers and myself...I am empowered. I too become infused with the beauty of language, the beauty of words, and the world opens its windows a little wider, the wind blows a little stronger, and serenity washes away the doubts, the fears, the hesitations. With each word, I breathe in tranquility and beauty. With each word, I release vibrancy and passion and life.

And so I will continue reading out loud, not just poetry, but everything.