January 12, 2013

My Muse: The Gift That Keeps Giving. ~ Edith Lazenby

Communication can be a moon outside my window or hail on my roof.

I do my best to say what I feel; I do my best to respond in a way that shows I have compassion; I do my best to understand.

Yet, sometimes my best is not enough.

Right now, I could do yoga. I could make coffee. I could do aerobics. I could go to bed. I could cuddle with my kitties. I could write another email and dig deeper when I was not trying to dig at all.

Or, I could face myself here, in writing, and exorcise the sadness, anger and frustration I feel.

There have been a number of blogs lately about writing; I have written a couple of my own. Ultimately, in writing I am communicating with you, the reader. You may be someone I know. You may be someone I’ll never know. You may think I am writing about you.

My hope is the writing comes, even when dark or sad, more like moonlight on a cloudy night that peeks out at you so you know even when alone, you are not alone. I hope it doesn’t feel like hailstones hammering on your windows.

My hope is that somehow it gives you some insight, maybe a way to reflect on some aspect of your life that demands your heart or even gives you a different window so instead of the moon you see Venus.

I know too often I feel alone; I know we all do. It is the angst of being human, being of light but feeling separate from it.

When I write, I feel my light rise even when my insides are wound so tight I feel like a coil that could spring loose and bounce to heaven and back. When I write I meet my Muse, my faceless nameless Muse who could be you and is you and so much more than you.

My Muse has carried me through drunken nights, psychotic episodes, loneliness that is so desperate a hug from a total stranger can carry the force of my first love on a one night stand.

My Muse is the gift I never asked for and always gives even when I feel have nothing, or worse, feel nothing.

My writing is not a form of therapy; my writing is not a means to vent.

Why does it matter?

Because when I write, I reach a place deep inside of myself that matters to me.

Because when I write, I speak in the hope of bringing meaning to being, to me and you.

Because I have spent a lifetime learning to write with the goal of doing it well enough so it’s more than mere therapy.

Because when I write I speak my truth, which therapy never gave me—and which venting has never voiced with art or craft.

I write because I care. I write with love. I write because I do care, about me and about you. And if it does not come from love, if writing lacks soul, then I might as well watch Law and Order.



I am a full time yoga teacher, trained at City Fitness in Washington, DC and Willow Street Yoga Center in Silver Spring, Maryland. I have been writing poetry since I was nine years old. Poetry is my first love and yoga continues to feed my heart. I write because I love it. I teach because I love it. I tell my students all the time: do it because you can. That works for me. I believe in creating opportunity. I believe in helping my self and others. I think faith is the most important gift of life, because when we lose everything else we still have that in our heart. I believe the natural state of being is happiness, or bliss, or Ananda. Life is a celebration. Poetry and yoga help me celebrate. Check out my website and blog here.

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Ed: Bryonie Wise





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