The Frustrated Communicator

I’m tackling it…the two file cabinets, the plastic bins in the closet, the cluttered shelves in the dining room. I started with the least cumbersome–the wicker shelf unit in the living room–cluttered with art supplies, recycled papers to be used for my innumerable lists, roles of decorative art papers, art journals, writing journals. As I rearranged or tried to organize, I realized that the frustration I feel isn’t perhaps that I have all of these journals and loose-leaf writing. I realize that I am a frustrated communicator!

Over the course of my life, I wrote and explored my questions on any and everything in these journals! There were times when I had a special person in my life with whom I could discuss the deeper things of life. And these rare people were dearly valued. When they moved on or died, that avenue, that special connection was gone. Then my questions lay like kindling in a mishmash pile, unanswered. It seems as if the questions, thoughts and poetry hover in another universe, waiting to be met, hoping to meet other inquirers. In the meanwhile, they sit in space (or in my journals) struggling for air and witnessing.

Does that make any sense? It is obvious that when I look at these stacks of journals, there is a seeker inside of me. A frustrated one. Because a monologue is a lonely place…I at least crave a dialogue or a circle of seekers like me. It would be nice. It would be great!

I have a few questions for you…do you welcome your own questions? Do you judge them? Do you find ways to share them with someone who won’t judge you in any way, with whom you feel safe?

Portals

Any writer, poet or artist seeks a portal, an opening, a place to begin.

Some mornings, I randomly pile books on my bed.  And I leaf through them, hoping for something to leap out at me.  When I crafted creative writing workshops, there was a certain magic that happened.  I had an idea that I was exploring and I’d open a book and the exact poem, quote or passage would find me!  That’s the thing, we never know where there might be an opening, a place to begin.  Yesterday, receiving news of a long-time friend’s serious illness, I was reminded that–ah, yes, sorrow and grief are portals.

portal2

Following are a few quotes, stanzas from poems and excerpts from various books:

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“The body is the starting place for what we know,”  from Sheila Bender.

“While I did watch, Brave Horatius did come and stand by my side.  He looked up at me. In his eyes were askings.  I made explainings.  I told him, The sky is filled with clouds, which look like ships”  from Opal Whiteley.

and then:  from Denise Levertov,
“The fire in leaf and grass
so green it seems
each summer the last summer…”

or Allen Ginsberg:
“All afternoon cutting bramble blackberries
off a tottering brown fence…”

and then, Wayne Dodd:
“All day I have been closed up
inside rooms, speaking of trivial matters.
Now at last I have come out
into the night, myself a center
of darkness.”

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The thing is that any of these excerpts, stanzas or quotes could be a portal that leads you or me into whatever we’re going to write about next.  (Noting, also, the privilege that is ours by tuning into these various writers’ voices and getting a sense of who they are and what they value.)

Are you curious?  That is one of a writer’s greatest gifts–curiosity.  You discover a portal, you enter, courageous once again, asking your questions, finding your answers while staying open for the unexpected.  Do you feel, at times, like the solo journeyer, the seeker, out in the universe on this great writer’s quest?

WRITING PROMPT:
Look for portals today.  Carry your pocket notebook or handheld recorder to archive anything that comes to your attention as a possible portal for your writing. Choose from one of these possibilities and write for thirty minutes. OR, borrow one of the excerpts above as your portal to today’s writing.

Are you surprised by where you went in your writing today?