Where do you go, sweet bell?
Where do you hide
when I long to feel your voice
sing through my bones?
I only know you;
the place I call home.
I only know you, dear constant voice
of heart,
of soul,
of love.
Oh.
But here you are again, little bird.
Here you are with the words I have missed,
the song I have so wished to hear on the wind.
Stay a while.
Please stay a while, sweet muse of mine.
Sometimes, I wonder if I can still write.
Not just write, as in, write any old words.
I mean, I sometimes wonder if I can still write fiction that peels my skin from the bone. Words I read back after I’ve written them and find that they speak to my soul.
It’s been a long time since I’ve written any fiction. My poor novel is sitting desperately among the cobwebs of my computer, wondering where I am. The short stories I once wrote are just that: short stories I once wrote.
The truth is, I’m afraid.
Because I wonder if I can still write.
And so I procrastinate and procrastinate until I don’t even try anymore. I know it is simply a matter of starting. But. I don’t even start.
I am too busy to scratch my nose, also, so that is one actual fact I can’t ignore. Even if I was brave enough to face the looming blank page, there is no time for that in these early stages of newborn life. These moments, now, are stolen moments I am taking back from Motherhood.
And I’ve chosen to give them to this place.
My heart place.
My home. (Where all of you are. My beautiful bloggy family.)
If history has anything to say about this pattern of me, I will make my way, eventually, to the place of bravery that allows for creativity to run free of the well. I will, once again, bring my whole soul to the surface of my world. I will create worlds, and lives, and beauty through art.
But that time is not now.
Now, I am here. (Happily, peacefully, lovingly I am here.)
Savouring these stolen moments.
Waiting for the baby to wake, running from the fears I know are lurking in the shadows.
I am not afraid to sit still. Here. Now. I am not afraid of this.
I am afraid of losing my creative flow, though.
Because imagine. To lose something so precious.
Imagine.
It’s odd, the way my novel is writing itself. I write in short bursts, for what reason, I couldn’t tell you.
I develop a beautiful flow, find a sweet new piece of the puzzle to slot into place. Then, the door closes. I do not know why it’s working this way, but I’m learning to trust that this is the way this novel wishes to be born.
I am resisting a little.
A big part of me gets cross. Just keep writing. Now. Today, this minute: push through the stop sign and write some more.
But I can’t.
I write in short sharp bursts.
The story comes in short sharp bursts.
It’s a lesson in waiting.
It’s a lesson in the subtle art of patience.
Two years ago, before the universe exploded everything around me, I began two very writerly things. One thing was this blog (and what an absolute gift this place has been to me. Writing and a beautiful little band of friends to share my life with? I mean, what life experience could be more wonderful. )
The other writerly thing I began was my very first novel, which became just about my whole entire heart when it began to spin its delicate web within me. I fell in love with the people, the places, the thoughts, the ideas. Everything. My novel felt like a safe and lovely home, and I felt like I was the lucky owner.
Apparently it wasn’t time for the novel, though, because the universe decided to blow my life up and make me a whole new person (thanks very much universe. Oh, you’re really quite welcome, Brooke.)
Anyway, I’m getting silly ( 🙂 )but according to the universe, there were a few more breadcrumbs of life for me to pick up before this novel could take flight…and without ruining the story for you, I can tell you: the universe was right. My goodness, how right the universe was to blow up my world and my novel.
I can’t quite articulate how I feel about the novel now that I’ve returned to it, but I can say that the clarity of thought and expression I now experience in my creative life— due to the meditation and healing I’ve done since then, I’d imagine — has given me a new set of eyes. And a new piece of my heart to write with. My goodness, you guys. It is the most magical, wonderful thing.
A great deal more of my novel makes sense to me now. I couldn’t possibly have written the novel that was asking to be written back then because I didn’t have the right ingredients within the writerly/ humanly cook book of me, then.
But lately I’ve started hearing whispers from the universe and this is what they’ve said:
It’s time. You are ready.
And guys?
It’s true.
I am so completely ready.
Let’s do this.
I like to pop in every day, if I can. Often there are days that I miss, and today was going to be one of them. I’m just a bit tired, today. The only me I have available to give is a little ‘hello, I hope you’re all doing okay.’
It frustrates me when the Soft Girl is out of action (for those of my bloggy family who are new, the Soft Girl is what I call my intuition/connection to self/connection to my creativity).
That beautiful wind feels ridiculously lovely as it moves through me, and the results of the Soft Girl’s blissful energy in motion are often just as lovely. So I’m missing her, today. She’s having a little snooze, and that’s okay. ☺️
Anyway, so much love bloggy friends. Hopefully I’ll be back with a little more in the tank, tomorrow. xx
I’ve just deleted it all.
On purpose.
Five whole paragraphs of the BEST thing I’ve EVER written.
We do that sometimes—us writers of words.
When ‘the force’ flies through us with alarming ease and grace, and we just know this is the one…until it’s not.
Because we’ve just read it all back.
And it’s not.
No.
Nopey, nopey…no.
Ah, yes. This creative life of mine.
What an absolute bloody shemozzle.
Darling day 14.
A day to sit in front of the computer and stare.
And stare.
And stare some more and wonder: is this where it all comes crashing down?
Is this the day the tank that once was full drizzles to a dripping halt?
The day this brain of mine says:
Guys.
I feel we’ve reached a point in our relationship where we can be honest about things.
Honest about the good.
Honest about the bad.
And honest about the very, very bad.
This.
This is very, very bad.
And it’s not to say that I don’t have any plans for this darling blog of mine.
Oh no. They’re there, alright.
Tucked up my sleeve, waiting for the perfect day to reveal themselves to me.
The thing is— This. Is not that day.
Nope. Sorry.
Today, the brain says: NO.
That’s got to be a little darling in itself, right?
Umm. Right?
brooke-cutler.com 