Friday, July 09, 2004
I'm sitting in Macrina Bakery in the late afternoon, taking a break from the novel for a sip of my soy latte. And the chance to write to you. There are crumbs of my buttermilk biscuit on the table. And dollops of strawberry jam. Gathering rainclouds outside.
I have no wild strawberries to share with you.
I have only hours of sleep, quiet conversations, and time to think. But my writing has come to life again these past few days, after months of it being dormant. I feel as though my wings are unfurling from that tight ball, and I'm just learning how to fly again. I've been writing for six or eight hours a day, the words pouring forth in some kind of deluge of grace.
I'd like to say that I'll be done with the novel by the end of this summer, but I've learned my lesson on that. Life interrupts you when you announce your plans firmly. Last year, after camp, I promised myself---swore to myself--that I would be done with the first draft by the time I went back. I imagined carrying the fat manuscript to Sitka, with pages to edit and scenes to flourish at people. I didn't imagine crumpled green metal, shooting pains in my head, an ache in my arms so bad I couldn't lift them, and four months without being able to write for longer than fifteen minutes. So I have no way of knowing what this year between camps will bring. I won't even try to imagine it.
But I do know that this life has changed me, unutterably. And I'm grateful for it.
So I'm trying to practice, in writing and loving, what I have learned from meditation: there is no goal. The path is the goal. The tough practice of staying open, remaining loving, writing, no matter what happens--it doesn't lead me anywhere but to more of the same. That is my work. And so I have decided to write, in this small, imperfect space, with a leaky blue pen. Write to say that I miss you. Write to let the words pour forth, not needing to know what they are forming. Write as a way of walking the path, stumbling along the way.
And the more I write, the more writing appears. And the more I love, the more love blooms open. The more life blooms open. My nephew giggled his face and showed me an entire row of white teeth when I picked him up this morning. We walked Seward Park together, me pointing out the looming green trees and floating ducks and raindrops on his hand. And he repeating the words back, in his baby voice, practicing the sounds. And later, he snuggled onto my shoulder and fell asleep.
Right now, outside, there's a small girl in a striped-red shirt, wearing a long blue cape, and carrying a turquoise light saber. And one green mitten. She's kneeling down to pet a small, shivering dog, which is tied to a metal table. There's such love in her eyes, as she scratches him behind the ears. And at this moment, nothing else exists, except watching this girl, and loving the world.
And sharing it with you.
All my love,
Shauna
I have no wild strawberries to share with you.
I have only hours of sleep, quiet conversations, and time to think. But my writing has come to life again these past few days, after months of it being dormant. I feel as though my wings are unfurling from that tight ball, and I'm just learning how to fly again. I've been writing for six or eight hours a day, the words pouring forth in some kind of deluge of grace.
I'd like to say that I'll be done with the novel by the end of this summer, but I've learned my lesson on that. Life interrupts you when you announce your plans firmly. Last year, after camp, I promised myself---swore to myself--that I would be done with the first draft by the time I went back. I imagined carrying the fat manuscript to Sitka, with pages to edit and scenes to flourish at people. I didn't imagine crumpled green metal, shooting pains in my head, an ache in my arms so bad I couldn't lift them, and four months without being able to write for longer than fifteen minutes. So I have no way of knowing what this year between camps will bring. I won't even try to imagine it.
But I do know that this life has changed me, unutterably. And I'm grateful for it.
So I'm trying to practice, in writing and loving, what I have learned from meditation: there is no goal. The path is the goal. The tough practice of staying open, remaining loving, writing, no matter what happens--it doesn't lead me anywhere but to more of the same. That is my work. And so I have decided to write, in this small, imperfect space, with a leaky blue pen. Write to say that I miss you. Write to let the words pour forth, not needing to know what they are forming. Write as a way of walking the path, stumbling along the way.
And the more I write, the more writing appears. And the more I love, the more love blooms open. The more life blooms open. My nephew giggled his face and showed me an entire row of white teeth when I picked him up this morning. We walked Seward Park together, me pointing out the looming green trees and floating ducks and raindrops on his hand. And he repeating the words back, in his baby voice, practicing the sounds. And later, he snuggled onto my shoulder and fell asleep.
Right now, outside, there's a small girl in a striped-red shirt, wearing a long blue cape, and carrying a turquoise light saber. And one green mitten. She's kneeling down to pet a small, shivering dog, which is tied to a metal table. There's such love in her eyes, as she scratches him behind the ears. And at this moment, nothing else exists, except watching this girl, and loving the world.
And sharing it with you.
All my love,
Shauna
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