writing hunts me down, offers
Tibetan heights. I blend in the blank drift
unlatched from gate and bone. I become
a shape of breath, rippling through mountains
like a feline ghost. At first, everything
seems sparse, from pine to plants,
words to theme, I hear nothing that melts
into clarity but feel this wind
circling the moon as if it were a bowl
meant to sing, summon art that has lain
silent, inward from long tracts of time
that led me here. I look around and wait,
My eyes lantern the mist.
_______________________________________________________
I have seen images of
the illusive snow leopard. It moves sleek and stealthily through the snow
drifts of the high, Asian mountains. This beautiful feline has also become an
"endangered species". So what
happens when we ,as writers, become
endangered of losing our grip, our peace of mind because of stress and other daily pressures. Anxiety,
depression and other conditions evolve which lessen our ability to stay on
track, confident even hopeful. At this point, writing intervenes and takes me
to a higher place where I have a chance to pause and breathe, seek and wander.
Like that wintry cat, I blend into the mind's landscape while becoming relieved
but somewhat disoriented. I yearn to write and know I am here to write
something. Words and themes are elusive but I sense there is light ,a moon in the sky that is calling for
me to look and listen This process requires tolerance, a heightened sensitivity
and faith that the idea will form and the silence will melt. As essayist and
writer Jeanette Winterson puts it -- Art,
in its making and in its enjoying, demands long tracts of time.
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