The Dry Salvages (aka: gray line on the horizon)

Some months ago, I wrote about burnout. It was part self-corrective, part re-admission of something I’ve known for a while. I thought maybe, as it usually goes when I hit this kind of wall, talking about it might bring a little clarity and then I’d be able to write again. Admit the failure, and the windows open.

But then my friend Janna left some wisdom in the comment box that’s been sticking around for months…

“The problem with easy, immediate publishing, via the internet, is that it tricks us into thinking that writing is somehow immediate, and should be shared everyday. This is simply not true. Percolating is good.”

So… this is it. The work of writing is work. It’s showing up, butt in chair, like it’s your job, something I all too frequently fail to do, yes. But it’s also the work of not quite writing… scribbling in the dark, reading, living, loving. It happens in far off places and in the lamplight in my own room. It happens in commuting and at concerts and in the kitchen, watching how the angle light hits drifting detergent bubbles just so.

I said in that same blog post that my new mantra was “never turn down an adventure.” I never dreamed that 2013 would put so many in my path. I traveled to New England in the middle of winter, climbed ocean rocks in the cold to catch a glimpse of Eliot’s inspiration, learned about obedience and craft at a writer’s retreat, fell in love in a Harvard bookstore, and said yes to one of my life’s scariest, most beautiful adventures.

For a while, I’ve been living on the edge of change. I feel seismic shifts happening in my soul. Only love and trust of the highest order can handle such a thing.

And then I catch myself overwhelmed to the point of not writing. What can I possibly write in the face of such immensity?

No. How can I not write?

So I’ve simmered these past few months. I’ve felt something of my old self being refined and yet still the same, still me, still here. Perhaps I will finally be able to put words to it and come back with a little something.

In the meantime, I have been writing, though not here. When times are emotional and my thoughts are too jumbled for linear prose, I write poems. I’ve written lots of them, because they don’t have to resolve or come to a tidy conclusion or even make sense. What other form of writing can be so alive in the moment? Because of that, my poetry Tumblr is still very much alive.

Also, it’s National Poetry Month, so expect more musings on poetry to come. And I’ve been reading too, so much I have maybe five books in progress now. More on those later, perhaps.

That’s a lot of “maybe later.” Maybe blog posts don’t have to resolve either. Maybe that’s okay.

All that to say…. to anyone still lingering out there, welcome. Diving back in to reclaim this space. Pardon the splashing and flailing around.