Moments in Retrospect

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.” ~ Anaïs Nin

Twilight is a carefree affair playing with the pups in bottom soaked jeans after it rains, with the fragrance of lilac and crabapple blossoms wafting heavy in the air. A patchwork of sprinkles begin to dot the dust covered stones in the driveway. I raise my face to a spatter of wet drops flowing down my neck in gentle rivulets beneath damp clothes. Simple pleasures. Pleasures, which unbidden are catalogued and filed away as I unconsciously map out current writing projects in progress or search future ideas where I can apply this tidbit of euphoria.

All these experiences and emotions accrue into a veritable tableau of memories. How many books are derived from this storehouse? How many stories do we reap in a lifetime unsolicited? Not enough. Too many things rob us of inhibited outtakes in our short human lifespan – Age, time, stress, even our human culpability of making things far more complicated than need be is guilty of this thief. The list goes on. Photographs are taken, occasions are videotaped; censure be damned, we hoard whatever we can of time in little discretionary pockets of remembered moments. Is it enough? What was going through our minds, how did we react, did we even care…do we even know? All veritable questions left unanswered in small visual glimpses left in mementos.

Words somehow escape the pariah of time. They don’t fade or aggrandize, they echo truths even we don’t account for in the telling. Each word is woven together into a tapestry blending all five senses into one garment. With words, a smile isn’t the only hint of happiness in a photo, it’s the blush of a kiss, the warm summer sun on skin or the smell of a cook-out brought to life. Grief is poured solid like concrete shoes that won’t allow us to escape emotional overtures sealed with droplets of tears. Each catalogued moment is etched across a page and stained with our humanity. And still I can’t file away enough or live enough for all the books my life encompasses. In the words of Brandon Sanderson, “Novels aren’t just happy escapes; they are slivers of people’s souls, nailed to the pages, dripping ink from veins of wood pulp.” This, this is why I write, to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect. ~ Indigo

Picture From Here

Invisible Barriers

“There are no clear borders,

Only merging invisible to the sight.”

― Dejan Stojanovic, Circling: 1978-1987

I watched apathetic as the guy from the fencing company traveled the distance of my yard, measuring wheel rotating, imagining the click – clack of the numbers adding up the invisible barrier to my soul. A multitude of emotions warred with one another, relief, and confusion as to why I needed this fence so strongly. When did my barriers find a need to become visible for all to see?

It wasn’t always like this. Life has a way of changing direction and running gamut with reality.  My invisible barriers built themselves into existence the day I went deaf. I’m sure it’s different for everyone who loses one of their senses, but for me it screamed a need to be “safe”. A safe distance between me and something I couldn’t hear, a safe place to docket away from people trying to pry their way into my silence. Safe was an excursion into remaining isolated…

No, I didn’t realize that at the time. Fear makes a damn good barrier and feeds all kinds of isolation, abandonment, and introvert tendencies. Fear was the most useful tool I knew how to use to excuse myself from society.  Life however, is never wrapped up in such neat little packages of explanations. What does this have to do with writing? Can’t say I blame you for wanting to by-pass the mental unwind, but it is a good question. I’ll answer in good time.

Human beings are resilient creatures, we improvise and change our needs on command; we’re driven by desperation, hope, longing, even co-dependency for companionship. Either way, something thrives within us forcing us to take stock of what we assume is the bottom of the end. I saw myself becoming the embodiment of silence. A hallow echo with no return, suffocating.

Writing was the only tool by which I could travel beyond my self-imposed prison; words had a resounding echo with every click of the keys on my laptop. I had a voice and a multitude of wondrous characters who in turn had their own voices. As a writer I felt free like none other and experienced life in ways that tested the very foundation of reality on a daily basis. Some days I wondered if the writer’s existence solely depended on my deafness. Perhaps, but I honestly think she’s stronger for the silence.

The click – clack of the keys spew forth words which hold the secret to my freedom. The fence isn’t for me. There are two mischievous muses who needed a place to romp in between cajoling out inspiration. Although, I am constantly aware of how fine the line I travel is between the writer and her deafness. These days they’re one and the same. We all have barriers in front of us in one form or another, how we choose to move beyond those barriers is a choice we must each make for ourselves. Fear is the biggest barrier of all. - Indigo

Picture From Here

The Other Side of Vulnerable

“To share your weakness is to make yourself vulnerable; to make yourself vulnerable is to show your strength.” – Criss Jami

I’ve never truly been at a loss for words - those denizens clawing and scrambling for every feasible space available in my think tank. I’m used to never having a quiet moment where some character isn’t babbling like mad, desperate to be heard. What it comes down to is the will of the writer (me) and my willingness to allow someone else to read about them, to know they exist with a story of their own…Words tend to be consistent, unlike life.

Sometimes the writer simply needs to hang onto her characters for a bit, needs the madness to consume her every thought and action, to distract from the hard moments real life is so poignant to throw her way.

I’m ready after all this time to let the madness go, to fill a multitude of pages with the blathering, choric, character speak which is mine and mine alone to decipher. To sift through all the storylines and overlapping scenes reminiscent of an overfed blender turned on without a lid. I find myself shuffling through notes, yanking a sentence here and there off the corkboard of my mind searching for the rest of the missing pieces.

Pieces of type obliterated before I was ready; ready to apply a salve of words to my wounds, my experiences or whatever I was writing. Those things needed to stay close to my bosom, to be felt – not heard or seen by anyone but me. This part of life wasn't meant to be shared. Not unlike the hawk I spotted with a rabbit clutched in its talons; talons which secretly ripped into my own heart as I watched the death throes of innocence. I swore I would never allow myself to be that vulnerable or allow my words to make me so. After all, the world eats everyone.

As I continued watching the majestic bird’s strength and breadth not 10ft from me, an insight into the other side of vulnerable began to reveal itself. The hawk arched its neck and looked over its shoulder and our eyes held. This...this was a gift. Sometimes in our vulnerability we make sacrifices of ourselves for the greater beauty encompassing what lies within and without us. I no longer pitied the rabbit; understanding its life presented a lesson, a testament of nourishment and courage. As the hawk spread his wings and took flight, I breathed easy.

I sacrificed words and time to deal with a very raw pain. Now, it’s time to see the majesty my words can make of that pain. The dignity I can bestow on hurt and memories. A writer never truly stops writing, smiles their characters would never allow that. Thank you dear readers for giving me time to grieve, to heal. I need to remember my muse is still with me, she’s never far from heart.

*If your new to my blog or haven't been by in some time, reading the post before this might answer some questions.