Category Archives: Writing

The Spaciousness of Allowing

Desk

What does it mean to own anything in my writing and then let it go?  Writing expresses my way of seeing the world, which differs from the way it is seen by my 7,370,143,253 sisters and brothers on the planet.   Then, there’s the process of putting my view into words.  Much like putting words to music, I imagine.

Sometimes I feel married to the need for everything to be pretty, to feel good, to go well.  Bit by bit, I’ve been divorcing that idea.  Perhaps it’s age.  Or wisdom.  Or the skill to inhabit a territory, a body, an idea and then to let it go when it’s time.

WP_20150923_009

I’m realizing too that I can release it gently with a tender kiss on the forehead.  Rather than with a farewell blast through my entire body.  With that awareness, my belly expands and my breath grows.

I can treasure what has been, what is, and what will be for what it is.  Pretty or harsh, complacent or strident, grand or minute.  Or pretty and harsh, complacent and strident, grand and minute.   At least in this moment, I let go of my need to have anything be other than it is.

Thank you Natalie Goldberg for inspiring this piece with “Elkton, Minnesota: Whatever’s in Front of You” in Writing Down the Bones:  Freeing the Writer Within.

 

January 20, 2015

Dear Friends,

Inspired by Nina Sankovitch’s book Signed, Sealed, Delivered:  Celebrating the Joys of Letter Writing, I set an intention in early January to write four letters a month.  I imagined I would write them on Sundays, my “day-away” from the computer.  However, it hasn’t happened that way. In the first two weeks of January, I wrote nine letters.  I’ll post the tenth one today.

Sitting at the kitchen table in the early morning hours drinking my “Sherry tea” of hot water and lemon, I notice an impulse to write a particular person.  Making my way to the stationery box, I pull a few sheer sheets of writing paper and sit down to begin.

Moving the pen across the page connects me, and eventually the letter’s reader to what’s alive in my heart at the time.  The birds chirping on the wire, the light slowly spilling into the room. Each letter reflects a present moment glimpse into what I am holding dear, laughing over or dancing with at the time of its writing.

“Received your wonderful letter today . . . it was so full that I will reread it several times,” a friend emailed.  “Do my letters race?  Are they chock-full and messy?” I muse.  I don’t know.  I only know how much I savor folding the thin sheets and placing them carefully in the envelope. How much pleasure I take in holding the person in my mind’s eye as I write their address.  The fun of pressing a commemorative stamp neatly in the corner.  The merry walk to the Post Office on Main.

One intention apparently leads to another, so now I’ve set an intention that once a month, I’ll post a letter to all of you here.  Just to see what happens!

Wishing you all winter’s simple joys and heartfelt connections,

Sherry

 

 

Unexpected Ephiphany

Writing Hoop

Writing Hoop

It is day one of October and I’m so sick even my knee caps ache.  Certainly not anticipating any epiphanies today.

When an impulse guided me to read Sarah Selecky’s blog post, “You’re an introvert, aren’t you?” (www.sarahselecky.com).  While few people on the planet would EVER call ME an introvert, in Sarah’s post I came across research psychologist Anders Ericsson’s “ten thousand hours” rule that apparently was made famous in a Malcolm Gladwell essay.  “Ten thousand hours:  this is the amount of time a person needs to practice a skill deliberately before becoming an expert.”

Clearly, we all know then that I’ll never be an “expert” in the kitchen.  The “ten thousand hours” rule did, however, make it abundantly clear to me that I AM A WRITER.

That a person with journalism and English degrees, who has been writing consistently since age 13, and who has earned a living for 20+ years telling stories in  magazine and newsletter articles, annual reports, speeches, letters, media releases, scripts, and now grants, would not see herself as a writer makes me laugh.  I have even ended relationships because I wasn’t writing.

And yet, until about an hour ago, this glaringly obvious fact had not occurred to me.  Everyone who has worked with me and known me well, including psychics, has observed it.  But not me!

I could question how and why I missed this simple truth, and I probably will, however, for right now, I’m just taking pleasure in the discovery that I AM A WRITER.  I am not a social worker, or a philanthropist, or a saint and I am not just a writer, however, I AM A WRITER.   NAME IT. CLAIM IT.  My knee caps feel better already.