A necessary drought

I have not written for a long time. I’m exploring why. I love writing. I love the process of allowing a story to unfold through me and to then hone it until it shines with the sheen of something made with utmost care and appreciation for the beauty of the material, in this instance, words.

How words fascinate me with their beauty! I love how they look formed in my own handwriting, or in the handwriting of someone I hold dear. My long departed mom’s left-handed longhand, or in many cases all capital letters when she needed to make it legible, looking very much like my own. George’s penciled-in notes in books he’s read, make as good reading as the book itself; tiny scribbles often with page numbers as cross references or main themes pointed out.

But even if they are typed, there is a balance and feel to every word that make me want to simply sit with it and look at it, pronounce it maybe. “Maybe” – “Maybe” – “Maybe” – “Maybe” – “Maybe”

So why then this long period of not writing? Looking back the block kicked in more or less when I stopped writing morning pages: a practice Julia Cameron teaches in her book The Artist's Way and that entails three pages of free-flow writing first thing in the morning. I gave it up as my usual spiritual practice in order to use the limited time I have to commit to another form of spiritual practice, called centering prayer. This meditative form of prayer doesn’t involve putting pen to paper, or even thought to mind. It is about simply being in the moment and not getting hooked onto thoughts.

Somehow, the flow was stopped and I simply had nothing to write about. Nothing seemed to surface. Simultaneously my ceramic work load increased drastically in the last few years. I stock a couple of outlets country-wide; do commissioned work and present pottery workshops. A lot of my creative energy goes into my work in the clay studio and so I would often say,” I cannot be a potter and write.” It just doesn’t seem to be possible.

I could reason that I need to discern whether I am to write, to sit in meditation or to pot. Maybe do a combination of two out of the three but seemingly not all three. Potting and meditating have been working well for me, but I miss writing. No, I more than miss writing. I need to write.

So, I’m adding twenty minutes to my morning practice by getting up earlier, I’ve picked up my journal again and I am once again diligently writing morning pages. It’s only a trickle still, but I can feel it coming. I can hear the distant rumbling after what has been a terrible, but surely necessary drought.

Necessary, because meditating has been changing me, slowly making me aware of my ego-centered ways of being. Maybe that is why I had so little to write about? Everything now seemed to be so “me, me, me!” to quote Sherlock Holmes’ brother. I would write a piece and wait in anticipation for the accolades, the "likes", for George to tell me how gifted I am as a writer.

I went outside early yesterday morning to walk barefoot on the grass that had become soft and feathery after a light bout of overnight rain. This too has become part of my practice, to connect directly to nature and to simply be in it for a blessed while before the day takes off. I leaned against one of my favourite Poplars, her bark soft and pale green with lichen. I looked up into the height of her lithe branches and then down to the gnarled roots spread around her base. The solidity of these old ones always soothes me. “I wish I can hear your voice”, I whispered and pressed my ear to the trunk. I could hear the rustling of her leaves and a creaking from deep within, and I yearned to stay there, held safely, but I was in too much of a hurry. My morning practice had timed out. Life had to be taken care of. Or so I seem to believe when I decide on things like how long I’ll sit or walk or write or hug a tree.

“I’ll be back”, I promise her and myself. And I’ll write about this so I can be clear on how I’m not getting it yet, how I sabotage myself. But also, how I’m starting to notice again, the way the tree looks at me with her beautiful root eye. Loving me.

Matilda

                               

Poplar "Root eye"
Photo by Matilda Angus