We Write. Art. Feel. Think. Bleed.
For the last 45-minutes, I’ve been studying the inside of my eyelids. Those astute colors of vivid yellows, reds, oranges — appear by day, and at night it changes to ash, bone, and soot.
Sometimes images appear or words rise from a vessel of something so holy tears slip out and befriend me. A sea is near. Imagination brings her closer. A small ordinary yellow notepad is curled up next to me waiting to hear what needs to be shared.
There are days, though, when words get muddled. We get so fucking lost and the characters in our story get log jammed. Or they jump over each other and we can hear their exasperation going puff, puff, puff — leapfrog style. Maybe dragon style. Maybe it’s a herd of zebras running from a dozen lions who have been hunting for days.
I ask the puffs what’s happening? And they answer, “Close your eyes we need to go for a walk inside your heart to listen to what isn’t being said so we can tell you what needs to be said.”
I’m not that surprised. Too busy often forgets what is most important. Too busy takes up chunks of time.
The layers of laundry. The unmade beds still scented with sleep’s dreams. The dishes waiting with crumbs and stains; the tea leaves interpreting everyday life is real. Paperwork needs to be finished. Work happens. The seesaw of schedules come and go. Sometimes the only tune I hear is the sing-song notes telling me when the laundry is done.
But maybe writing is supposed to be this way like a cryptic sorcery raining upside-down and inside-out waiting to be dispensed over rapid or dry riverbeds. Maybe writing is as much a fire or a curse or a dormant dream piling clouds down through the centuries to gather what is lost.
Writing finds us in our darkest hours when a critical mass of self-doubt has encircled us and squeezes us into believing we have nothing to say. That inner critic can be a real bitch.
But we continue to write. Art. Feel. Think. Bleed. We follow the threads of an organic pressure that resides in our belly and breathes the blemishes from our heart’s stories.
That’s when things start to cook. The coffee shop holds us in a corner less space and the sounds help us to blend. We ground easier into places that are familiar. It feels effervescent. Imagination is fire and has caught our intuition’s breath. There’s an outcrop of native dreaming trees hosting not only leaves but ancestors and star fragments that glow rich in soul speak.
It only takes one or two sentences to spark that writing flame. To be captivated in the kindest sense of words and their mystery. They heed messages of untold stories and then give life to the characters dead and alive when the letters touch the page expressing their bruised orange origins, picked fresh from sun kissed fields, carried in birch weaved baskets and placed in a cool, musty cellar where the spiders weave webs to shield as each step we take heaves under the weight of climbing through our fears.
The colors of night find us in the day where our eyes need to go quiet to hear what we need to write. The novel. The quest. The dream. The editing. The surviving. The alchemy. This is our story. We keep writing.