We are writers. Creators with perspectives and experiences. Themes coursing through our bodies and dreams and we search for meaning. We search. Looking for words to fill the blank spaces, the question marks. To make sense of the world.
I write because, as I write, I am heard. A built in friend, guide, lover, muse. One who stands by me no matter what. Who stood by me as I was unsure of who to share my love with. Unsure as to where I wanted to live. Or even now where we will live after the cabin in the wilderness this summer. What we will look like.
It’s not always safe to express my words to others. Still too scared to disturb or make others uncomfortable, or more so myself uncomfortable if judged or written off. Not wanting to show anger or ugly. Get mad and rant. Or vent. It’s selfish. I don’t like hearing others rant about their lives, breathless, getting out the frustration. It’s hard not to take that shit on. Unless they pull it back to themselves, that essential piece of reflection, of taking responsibility for ones experience. So, I don’t want to burden others. That is why I write. Because without it I dam it up. The sensations. Putting pressure on my insides. My throat. My navel. My womb. Tucking pain and grief and fear and loss in the folds between my organs.
I write. I write to ask questions. To look back years later and see the answers revealed. In time. And we are all writers. Scripting our lives. The stage, set, costume design. Entry points and exit points. Transitions. Characters. Plot twists. I write to encourage life and creation to live through me. I write to find courage. I write to empty. I empty the mind so the body has space to dance. I dance.
I dance and I hear the thread of music that has existed before humans had feet. Before trees had names and the Walrus’ tusks were mere nubs on his cheeks. I saw a Walrus in Alaska. A whole island full of them. Young boys fighting. Wobbling into the ocean, up rocks, rolling onto one another. And an old one, in solitude. His molded brown blonde body on wet rock giving little attention to our passing boat, indecisive whether to bark or burp. And young ones playing in our wake, vying for our attention. I give attention to that which shows up in life and make choices as to what roles I will play.
I write the roles I play. And then resist the roles because roles are like boxes and I don’t want to fit into a box. Cramped and uncomfortable. I write to see beyond the limitation of form. To taste the formless. To integrate and disintegrate. Deconstruct, reflect, reconstruct. See life as the spiral that it is and become aware, perhaps, of these lessons I keep circling around. The knots I am to work out of my shoulders and knees. My right shoulder. I think I dislocated it too many times showing off as a kid. Lame. But I have been doing more movement lately. Yoga classes. Submerging body in ocean waves. Bringing more oxygen in to the body. That feels good. It supports my relationships.
Primary relationship being that with my self. The bed I sleep in and dream in and make love in: this journal. Lovemaking with tools and props: ink and paper. Hand. And head. And heart. And throat, though still a bit tense, doesn’t have to keep down the sensations coursing through my veins. My spinal chord has room to elongate. Feel the gravity of life and the pull of the ethers. Space to dream.
I dream. I dance. I write.