Friday, October 16, 2015


Life is very full right now. I may have bitten off more than I can chew. All good things, all things I would not choose to give up.

But every season loses something to begin something, and the thing I feel I'm losing is art. Solitude. Reading and writing. Me, I guess. The person I thought was me.

Some days I think this is okay for now. And some days feel as though I am missing a limb.

No, not a limb. More like the core of me, at the center. I wonder where I am inside.

I tend to remember everything as better than it was. This week I found my way back to old blog posts from several years ago. And I found myself nostalgic, thinking what good years they were. The kids were so small and precious, the days simpler and sweet and I felt fruitful and passionate. Everything is golden, in memory.

But they were good and terrible years. Events which I never wrote about shook me so profoundly that it was like being uprooted, like the ground falling away beneath me.

Funny how memory sifts things.

I miss writing. I miss the days when words came too quickly to get them all down, when I was sleepless and centered. I carried notebooks in the diaper bags.

But the truth is that art begins in the dark. Where we are most desperate, most lost, unearthed- art- faith- comes from the black loose soil.

It wasn't easy to find my way then,  and it isn't easy now. It is never easy. But it is necessary. To find your nourishment and cling desperately to it. It is your life.

Now let no charitable hope
Confuse my mind with images
Of eagle and of antelope:
I am in nature none of these.
I was, being human, born alone;
I am, being woman, hard beset;
I live by squeezing from a stone
The little nourishment I get.
In masks outrageous and austere
The years go by in single file;
But none has merited my fear,
And none has quite escaped my smile.

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