Why Write When The World Is Crumbling?
Welcome back, soulful seekers.
The definition of poetry (noun) in the Oxford dictionary is:
literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm; poems collectively or as a genre of literature.
a quality of beauty and intensity of emotion regarded as characteristic of poems
On my walk today, I found myself thinking about my writing, the poems, the words, the hours of sitting with my nose buried in my notebook. I wake up everyday, make my tea, and try to breathe into the background of everything; all of those feel like prerequisites to what is the real reason I wake up these days, which is to feel the release of finally sitting in a quiet spot with my notebook. And no, not because the process is cute or starts off easy.
So why write? For hours on end, usually not having a clue what needs to be on the page, or what will emerge. I sit pen in hand, and the only imperative is, "Write what is true." Often it starts with aerated, brittle truths that sit at the surface; "I woke up feeling heavy, couldn't sleep well all night thinking about Her. She called me and I ended up…". The tap turns on, streaky brown water bursts out in fits and starts. It's always there, after the storm or repair job of each day weathered. These days, this first layer of writing always feels pointless. Why the hell am I sitting here talking to myself about things I was already there for, why bother to write these surface details at all? I've had more moments where I need to remind myself to trust the process, remembering that if you let the water run long enough, eventually it will run clear. To anyone having felt the initial hump felt when you first sit to write yourself whole, you can trust two things to never fail you:
You'll nearly always feel the "why the fuck" of it all at the start of a journaling session.
If you lean into it and get past the separation of written and writer, "the merge" happens.
"The merge" is that magic moment, probably akin to when one reaches a flow state, where you and the pen, the paper, the words that fit, are one. There's no self-referential thought critiquing the written or the process or wandering to other things, it is simply the clear, purified truth spilling out. What's fascinating about this process is when you trust and get through the separation to reach the merge, there is almost always a flow of sweet, deep, well water that springs forth. You are the clarified water flowing, and the one keeping the tap running. I've seldom had a poetic journaling session where we didn't become that base flow, the formless flood that carries everything that truly needs to be offered back to the world of forms.
There's a key word here that I want to spend time on - "process". You see, I realized something else on this walk today. The actual poems I carve out at the end of my process matters less than the act of writing itself. Sure, I've gotten to a point where personally, I care about finessing the structure and making it qualitatively respectable to peers, but if the opportunity to learn and excel in that were taken away, I would fight like hell to keep passing on the process of poetic journaling at all. It's a critical distinction to be made, between my care and commitment for the process vs the outcomes, especially as I consider the evolution of my facilitative work in this field. The question here is, "What am I fiercely committed to at the core?". Is it the creation of beautiful works, offered as singular jewels to inspire, soothe, provoke, or silence? Or is it the carrying forward of a contemplative, wisdom-oriented process by which we gather, sort, make sense, and beautify our relationships with being itself, through continually re-forming worlds that allow us to feel ready? When I find a completion point to a session of my poetic journaling practice, the world and me in it, feel even-footed, integrated, and locked into a slower, base frequency of the perennials. Ready to face yet again the same dark corners if need be, ready to have everything inverted, ready to lose what matters most, ready to meet the inevitable messiness. I feel ready, to repeat the process as many times as is needed, because as messy as it may get, I know it can always feel beautifully right again.
When I quiet all the noise, I want most for people to experience the power of going through their own process of gathering, sorting, fitting in the right places, and beautifying their worlds. The quality of the final outcome matters less than the opportunity to harmonize experience, making it, for a moment, just right.
Here are a few final stages of processes where I recently arrived at the ready:
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Writing With the Sword
Each morning, I notice what's passing through
Slabs of concrete, immovable
A flashing stab down low
Seldom, a feeling of fascination with what's been brewed up in the dream world,
Else the end of a stick, poking at my back, pushing me toward the better next
On a good day, the ink edges and curls to show me who gets to be written anew
Sometimes, I'm simply given the writer
We write
because even if none of the words speak out from the depth of the diaphragm,
Holding the pen is the only clearing left to grasp onto
So we return, time and again,
To filter our waters and wash the skin,
Because sometimes, when you most need it, hot, fresh blood pours onto the page,
And you will know it's time to lay down your sword.
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Country Living
Her voice perfumes over the speaker, And I would like to let you go
The easy intimacy of the town's regulars coming to sip their sacrament
Trading the kids' schooling, needing, breeding, toiling like cards across the till
I got a September baby who just turned 18, getting ready to run after shedding the last of the responsibilities
I'll tell you about my Eden, returned to the monotony of a grounded skin, wanting to crawl out of her taut teenage home
Just in, got a hard wake up in the late April blanket, praying on a pink Scorpio moon to turn my tides
And by the window, leaning on scarred pine,
A hurt opening,
Small, cautious words detangling a knotted tongue,
To go cup filled to the rim, or would I like some space for a splash of country loving? ____________________________________________________________________
In carrying forth the spirit of this entry, the invitation here to reflect on :
❓️What enlivening, expansive process are you fiercely committed to?
Thanks for tuning in to this week’s musings.
