the writer who doesn’t write

A line stuck out at me from Jenn Shapland’s recent (and excellent) work on the life of Carson McCullers

[He was] a writer who never wrote.

(In regards to Carson’s husband Reeves McCullers)

A writer who never wrote. A writer who never wrote. I would not want to be remembered that way, but I very well could be. I find refuge in language during certain rocky junctures but when the waters are calm I get lulled, I get lazy- as I recall- It’s a little difficult to remember, because recent years have been so challenging. My writing shelved not because of sloth but because I’m trying to keep the goddamn ship afloat.

Notebook scribbles. She was a writer of notebook scribbles.

My son is medically complex. My daughter is dynamic and active. My kids need me but I need this. So I will keep finding ways to arrive to the page, to express and explore and fumble and reach and keep doing whatever it is that we writers do.

we are all made of stars

I am hungry.  I am hungry.  This is what propels me to the mountains, to the meadows, to the desert and to riparian forests that murmur secrets among the babbling stream. I plunge into the wilderness which burned only 3 years ago in a blazing inferno that gobbled up thousands of acres in Southern Arizona. I stumble along the rugged trail and catch myself on a charred stump; I wipe my brow, blackened with the remains of ancient trees, woodland creatures, delicate leaves.  Such magnificence, reduced to nothing but a carbon smudge. This fate awaits me too, but for now I’m housed in a body, layered with flesh, coursing with hot red blood. I pant and groan and laugh and piss and shit and contract and expand. I crush lovely mushrooms with careless steps and I trip over the roots of ancient trees and come tumbling down, awkward and so very human. So very much alive.

The sun sets beyond canyon walls and I lie underneath the night sky, my flesh pressed against ancient boulders.  The hardness beneath gives a gentle reminder that I am different, something more transient, like the Perseid meteors that streak brilliantly across the darkness above me. But yet I’m also timeless, my carbon originating from the very stars that glitter above me.

I am nothing.

I am everything.

retrieved from:http://4warnwxteam.files.wordpress.com/2011/10/meteor-shower.jpg

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I have been pretty quiet on the blogging front lately, but was recently featured as a guest blogger at inspired2ignite .  Denise is a fantastic writer who explores themes surrounding recovery, gratitude, and living a full and meaningful life.  I would be honored if you would visit her blog and read my post there– and all the other ones too!

the 100th post

This is my 100th post.  A landmark worth noting, don’t you think?  I started this blog 17 months ago, in the trenches of my mother’s illness.  I barely knew which end was up, but I knew that writing felt good.  So I wrote.

Things have changed a lot in 17 months, which is how long my mom survived after she was diagnosed with lymphoma. Early writings reflected the struggle to find balance during the stresses of caregiving, and the fears of a daughter who also was an oncology nurse.  Who knew too much.  Now, I write to help me navigate through grief.  To help me understand the new world that I inhabit.  The world without my mother.

I’m only now beginning to unravel just how my life is different since her death.  Its a little bit like returning home after many months away in a foreign land.  Nothing has changed: the coffee cup is where it was left in the sink, the shoes lined up just so in the closet. But somehow, everything is new, while simultaneously familiar.  Changed, yet the same.  I’m a different person having gone through my loss, and yet in some ways, I am more me than ever.

This blog has connected me with family that I lost touch with, and old friends of my mom that I have never met. Those that understand what it is to say goodbye, to walk away, to let go.  To smile through the tears.  To see beauty in everything, even heartbreak.  I thank my inspiring and faithful readers, who don’t squeeze their eyes shut when I spill my guts about my dead mother and my bottomless grief.  Who say not “get over it!” but “I understand.”  You have made a difference in my life, and thank you for walking through this with me. I don’t always respond to every thoughtful comment as I should, but know I appreciate your time, your feedback, and your willingness to read my words and take them to heart.

Tomorrow is Mom’s  birthday.  I felt two breaths away from crazy last week, but now I am calm.  Who knows what tomorrow will bring?  No matter what, I know I can write about it.

Thank you.