Writing. Still.

 

As of last night, I have been writing for 15 minutes or more in one format or another almost every day since January 2. Blog posts, some poetry (still sticking to pantoums as I reintroduce myself to poetry), a large ongoing work (35,000+ words) which is most likely a memoir of my childhood.

The more I write, the more I want to write. I don't mean "want to write about;" I mean "want to write." 

The physical act of writing is a powerful act. It is magic. In several places in my commonplace books, I have captured quotes of writers of different eras, different genres, who all comment on writing being an act of the hands and not the brain. Keyboard or pen on paper: make the words come. I write longhand before turning to a keyboard: my pen, my hand learn the words.

Warren recently made a similar observation as he prepares for a major timpani performance in May. He noted that he is very familiar with the written part, looking at the score, but that his hands have not learned it yet.

These last few weeks have been, as I have noted more than once, a time of mixed emotions and mixed feelings and mixed actions. The medical path ahead is still murky; Dante in his dark forest had nothing on me. But with help from Warren, my PCP, and my friend David, I have reached some clarity about what I am thinking. What help did they give me? Listening closely, listening carefully, and affirming my wonderings.

And there are other arenas - money (always money), travel, community - that I am talking and writing through as I move forward. 

On that note, here is a recent pantoum: 

I am taking stock: 
Counting out the pennies,
Counting out the seeds.
Where are we now? 

Counting out the pennies, 

I try to scan the future,

Where are we now?

The bar code is invalid.

I try to scan the future;

The past is no help.

The bar code is invalid.

Only the present works.

The past is no help.

I am taking stock

And only the present works,

Counting out the seeds.

*****

As you can tell, gardening is never far away.