I am a small, hard, naked thing, cold inside and out. Gazing up at this denuded, unattractive, but not uninspiring tree stirs affinities as powerful as they are cliched.
So I’m trying to squeeze out some words, to just turn up and write, as taught by friends and mentors Lorianne and Satya and Kaspa. And it feels like trying to draw sap from this harsh, dry thing that pokes from an urban pavement. What trickles painfully out is rusty, greasy.
This is hard. I’m cold. I’m blowing on my hands. Trying to breathe life back into something, my breath floats whitely on the air and quickly disappears.
3 comments:
but it was there, it was there...
It's a strange thing, drying up. When it's been a while since I've posted anything, or since I've gotten any responses, I sometimes find my confidence completely gone, and retroactively gone: not only do I have nothing to say, but I never did have anything to say. When I get in that state I just have to prime the pump by getting some words out, any words about anything.
I love your words, and I miss your voice. xo
Dale said it so well.... I don't know if this helps, but you are not alone in those times of drought. Think of as between breaths?
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