So, there are things to work out, yeah? We all have things to work out. Deaths, breakups, awful traumas, stints of depression and anxiety. Here we are, friends, swimming in murky water. Here we are dancing. This morning I woke up and walked on the beach with the great blue herons and the red-beaked white ibises. I swam in perfectly clear, calm ocean. That’s one way to wake up. I’ve been writing a little. Looks like I have a new manuscript of poems on the horizon. In addition to actually readable poems, I had this batch of maybe 30 poems that I never wanted to see again. I printed them out and started culling lines from them. I took the first line or so from each and made a poem. Then I took the next line or so from each, another poem. Then I took random lines from each, a third poem. Three poems into this process, I remembered why I love to write poems: chance & mystery!
I had a really bad day on Friday. I’m talking full-on anxiety attack. Couldn’t drive, couldn’t think straight, cried a lot. And then I got through it, with the help of some dear friends. I woke up the next day a little better, but still panicky. I slept through the night, and woke up the next day a little better. Better enough to write poems again. This is important. You remember who you are when all the detritus has been stripped from you, but it sure is effing painful to be stripped down.
The epigraph of Clarice Lispector’s novel Near to the Wild Heart is a quote from James Joyce. It reads:
He was alone. He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life.