February 7, 2014

The Simple Life of a Writer.


Line after line of carefully and chaotically orchestrated words are put together in a manner that suits me.

I wake up at the crack of dawn, perform the usual routine, gaze outside for a spell to see how the world is turning, listen to the quiet and a distant melodic bird welcoming their own morning, twist and turn my body in such a way to crack open the dreams and thoughts, then I sit.

I sit for hours.

I sit because it makes me smile and ponder and connect with my inner core. I place the soft cushion under my hips because I know after hours of this practice my posture begins to suffer, my bones start to talk, my shoulders need to roll away from my ears, and my thoughts drift too far away from why I am here.

I turn to the soft music humming along, music that I have chosen to keep me at it and continue to pluck away until my fingernails no longer have edges.

He is sleeping.

I have hours to myself.

I have solitude.

I bleed at the desk until I have to stand up and lie back on a stability ball, remembering that I am limber and fit and my body deserves a break. I bleed because I want to. I bleed every hour of every day to remind myself of why I no longer do the typical dance of life and have chosen this place that is my craft. I bleed until that first sound of his amazingly peaceful voice sinks into my ears and the smell of breakfast and warmth beckons me to take a moment and appreciate all that is and all that has happened.

I have been sitting and bleeding at my desk for days on end, months and years have gone before with so many words and jotted down notes and the finale is arriving. No amount of fear can distract the reasons of why pages of words need to be complete. I try to tamp down the noise related to the minutiae of what it all looks like as a finished product, the steps it took after completion. Technology advances and me were never that great of friends, so I leave that up to those who are the masters.

I am sitting and bleeding because I love it.

I toil away hour after countless hour because no amount of joy or passion, in any other way, gives me that feeling of oneness and honor and gratitude. I sit and I bleed to experience my heart growing open wider and more accepting of all that is.

And that is the crux of it all. The reason that my spine gives way after three hours, my neck needs to be massaged and manipulated to ease the tension, my tea cup constantly needs refilling, and I am ready to say “I love you” to him.

My heart has been cracked open a thousand times before the sun begins to rise. My heart has poured onto paper words that fill every nuance from my voice within. I have gazed at the screen until my eyes see red and my lens becomes void. What I say on paper gives me the impetus to shift in my seat, to lift my head and look around, to see that life and love is wrapping me up, to lace up my shoes and prepare to visit nature and its beauty, to feel the sun on my face, and to give of myself as I know best.

My heart expands and it has been alive since the first recollection of my dreams early in the morning.

Everything is flowing.

I return to the pages and do it all over again. The minutes speed into hours. The yoga mat calls my name and I realize it needs me to be a part of it and the stillness and my breath. My body is aware of the desire for a practice of silence and acceptance.

The door is open ushering in fresh air and warmth and more birds are talking to each other.

He is gone for the day.

I am alone again.

I am in my space to awaken more of the hidden emotional and vulnerable words that make their way into the story. I feel refreshed and alive, and it is getting close to late afternoon. The sky turns pink and blue, and the softest collage of colors dot the sky.  Every cloud forms a synchronistic shape and sign. Venus appears first and lets me know that evening is here.

My heart expands wider and I feel blessed. I don’t even recall showering or having lunch, yet we reconnect for a creative healthy night time meal.

Then, I sit and I bleed and I fondly channel Hemingway.


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Editor: Bryonie Wise

Photo: Pixoto

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