The chill that was in this morning’s air, from having left some windows open overnight, forced me outside to sit on my front porch that was awash with the warming rays of sunlight. I love that feeling of warmth as it spreads throughout my body, slowly penetrating into my very bones. It is one of those mornings where the remnants of a deep sleep cling to me and I am reluctant to move from the cozy euphoria that keeps me suspended, between sleeping and waking. My two cups of coffee have little effect as I linger in this contemplative state. Often, this is the place where my best writing comes forth. There is no plan already formulated, no ideas or prompts to set the wheels of my mind spinning. I only pick up paper and pen, which begins almost of its own accord, to produce the stream of words appearing before me.
I began writing poetry when I was in high school. It was an outlet for the onslaught of teenage hormones and emotions that plagued me. My writing has rarely been approached with purpose, but emerges often unannounced and at odd times. Most frustrating, are those instances when I am driving in my truck, or out for a long walk with no paper and no pen at my disposal. Many thoughts and words have alighted like a butterfly; then disappeared forever because I did not get them written down. Inspiration has also come in the dead of night when I was much too tired to move. The words that do get written, may never be read by anyone. They are only words, after all. A surplus of words often goes to waste like too much zucchini, too many tomatoes, or the millions of seeds that will never germinate. It is a game of chance. The order in which our words are arranged can produce understanding in the one listening to or reading them. Or, they can be entirely misconstrued. We all know people who seem to have “diarrhea of the mouth”. They talk incessantly, yet say nothing of importance. But, those things that must be said and need to be heard, often come from the quiet places. My life has been for the most part, a quiet place. From the quiet I listen and observe. When I sit down to write, I am a pathway through which the words can travel. They are generated from a place outside myself, out of reach from the confining ego. They flow through me, carried by an unseen force down the length of my arm and into my pen (or keypad) where they become visible in the physical world. It is not my task to see who reads these words. I know that those who are meant to benefit from them, will find their way to them. Books have been known to practically jump off the shelf, for those people who need to read them. So, I write. Then, I edit. Then, I go outside and garden.
