Moving With No Movement At All


I haven’t been writing lately.

I’ve wanted to write.

I’ve wanted to write because that’s what I’m supposed to do. Write. I’m a writer. I should be writing. I want to write. I miss writing. I miss feeling words flow through me on a walk or during yoga. I miss rushing to get to my journal to write them down. I want to mush words together between my fingers, to mold them and shape and form them into a pose and put it in the kiln to finish.

I’ve wanted to write but since the picture I haven’t. I mean a journal entry here or there, but that’s the extent of my pen.

I’ve thought about writing. I’ve thought a lot about how I’m not writing. I’ve thought a lot about the light bulbs that puffy cloud through my mind but don’t seem to make their way through my fingers onto the ring.

I’ve been reading more than writing. Good thing writers read. Phew! I’ve been reading articles and books, poetry and blogs. I’ve been reading the news. I even read the back of my husband’s Morning O’s cereal box. (A quick read indeed).

The other day I read Cindy Yantis’ Thought Changer blog. She wrote about winding roads and beating your own drum.  

Let me paraphrase. I do that. I paraphrase. I’ll take someone else’s light bulb and ingest it, process it and make it my own. It’s not plagiarism, I promise. I give credit where credit is due. It’s more like digestion. Then I can share the light bulb and spread the love. Isn’t this what we writer’s want? To make a difference in the world with our words and let our light bulbs enlighten.

Cindy described that feeling of moving through molasses, that idea of things not happening fast enough. I know this place, I know this judgement of speed and how things should look. I know this gavel well.labryinth

My path has brought me here–to this forest. I’m not producing right now. It’s not my time. It’s my time to clock. Instead of writing, I’ll sneak off to a dark cool theatre and watch someone else’s creativity unfurl. Instead of writing, I’ll explore my own popcorn. I’ll listen to it hum and vibrate. I’ll feel it and feed it a bit of patience and respect and ocean air. It has been quite a practice, putting  my judgment aside and letting my popcorn dolphin on it’s own.

When I sit back and breathe I feel my gratitude. I’m grateful for the picture–that huge bump in my own coiling trail. I am grateful for the wrench that jammed up my labyrinth and the skillful hands of builder who yanked it out. All that digging and stirring about, although quite tunneling, turned out to be a blessing. I am different. I am more grounded. I am even somehow more whole.

It’s a funny thought. To find myself here, in a place of acceptance after that picture and the tunnel and my inability to grasp at my light bulbs and put them to pen. After all that, I’m okay.

Still, in this place of moving within no movement at all.


Trying Too Hard


I’ve tried too hard
only to watch
everything I’ve tried too hard for
fall apart.
Each brick I’ve tried too hardbrick wall
to lay just so
on the brick
Before it,
Topples to the ground
in a cloud of dust
which I then
try too hard to clean up
so as not to leave
evidence of my crime.


footprints in sandBut there is always evidence
a foot print left
in the soft sand
a wave can’t wash away
a streak of dirt on a window
an over-worked rag will smear
a dried leaf
dropped from a dying plant
left ignored in the corner
of a room.


I’ve tried too hard
to be right,
to hide my truth
clenched in my fist.
I watch her
push against
the bars
trying to wriggle
herself free
as she gulps
for air.

Until one day
I remember
to stopsoft focus
to listen
to open
and welcome
the whisper
before she
has to scream.

Now, when I look out and
watch others trying too hard,
I can see me.
My lens is more focused
and less accurate,
I know, it’s what,
an oxymoron,
like a hard pillow or
a tender arrow.

It’s true though,
I am more focused,
just softer.