When It’s Too Hot To Write

Some days it’s even too hot to write. The heat rises from the sidewalk like it’s coming from a fire ball in the center of the earth. I watch the still morning and

wait,

wait,

wait,

for the breeze to arrive, whisper through my window, lift the sheer fabric of my curtains, let them billow.

Wait for it.

When it comes and I can breathe, I can be present.

When I’m melting it’s hard to breathe. I melt. I pool and puddle at the foot of myself. I wonder if I’ll ever be solid again.

If I could just remember

Then maybe I’d be in the flow, staying present

There’s so much to remember.
Remember I’ve been here before.
Remember I’ve solidified myself
Remember I’ve found a way back
Remember I’ve had my heart broken and mended
Remember I’ve had stiches, scraped knees, hospital visits, infections, fevers and I’ve healed
Remember the ocean
Remember the rain
Remember the snow
Remember the wind

 

I’ve been reading James Tate. He’s what I would call a great heat poet, a term I just made up and he might even appreciate. Trippy reading that washes over me like a breath of fresh air and I can breathe. What a release. What a practice in staying present and just letting my words do what they want. Letting them bubble up and splatter onto the page.

Words that I might not normally string together become awesome sentences and images and moments in time.

Silly straight, wicked, alarming, curvy, willowy, funny, sad angry simple words.

They say, do something once a day that scares you. Why? To stretch? To become more of the person I’m meant to be? More of the writer? I don’t do a physical action every day that scares me, to much to think about quite frankly. However, I do it in my writing.

And in this post, it’s scary to let the words flow and not edit (or overly edit) myself. To be honest and let myself tumble onto the page and then share it with others.

Here comes the breeze. I’m sitting in my office and letting her cool caress wrap herself around me, kiss my neck, my inner thighs, my belly, the curve of my back. I’ll watch her wrap me in relief. I’ll watch her drift in and out as the papers flutter on my desk. I’ll watch the heat sink back into the sidewalk, back to the smoldering ball in the center of the earth.

I’ll do my best to hang on to this moment. Seal it up and store it away for the next time I melt.

I wrote a little something inspired by James Tate called “My Bench” feel free to visit that bench and enjoy the ocean breeze.

In the meantime, until we melt again.

August 21, 2012