Writing Like Breathing

rainbow.flowers 017There are times when I write, and it feels like breathing.  This is one of them.

Like breath.  Essential, easy, effortless.  A flow that is so simple and natural I have no conscious awareness of activity and my involvement in it.  No awareness of time or place passing.

In these moments, I am.  It is that simple.  Two words, I am.  I feel no boundary between me and all around me.  I am.  We are.

This is pure pleasure, when writing is like breathing.  Writing for the pleasure of hearing thoughts pass through, for the pleasure of feeling my hand roll and loop and form words on a page.  Writing because here in this moment all is perfect.

When writing is like breathing, all is whole.  Nowhere is anything broken or chipped away.  I feel settled, at peace in mind and body, content in heart and spirit.

When writing is like breathing, I am blessed.  Writing this way, when it happens, is pure gift.  I am my truest self.  A feeling through every cell in my body, I am.  I am love, I am joy, I am breath.

When writing is like breathing, I am my river voice, flow and music.  I am life writing life.

I am.

Dance Me Across The Page

'Old Coyote Trick (Joy)'--Cat Fink
Old Coyote Trick (joy)

It’s not a day to be outside.  Wind and cold rain.  Grey sky.  The birds are hiding out in the snuggest places they can find.  Even the neighbour’s Irish Setter has not been through our yard on his usual patrol of the neighbourhood.

Like the birds, today I am in the snuggest place I can find.  In my studio, on the couch, Doctor Who blanket laid over my legs.  Vivaldi concertos playing on my laptop, and the heating turned up two degrees warmer than usual.

So much of what I do in my life is a search for major and minor comforts.

Today my big comfort is writing by hand.

I always write my first drafts by hand.  Moving a pencil across the lines of loose leaf paper is soothing to me.  There is a sweet, slow rhythm in this movement, a connection of mind and body that grounds me as I go.

Writing by hand is a waltz.  The sway and turn of my pencil forming patterns of words feels like the shift and slide of my feet on a dance floor.  Here is something created by my body and mind in partnered movement.  Each completed pattern of 1-2-3 is another thought, another sentence.

Of course I write on my laptop, too, but that is a different kind of dance.  The rhythm is staccato, my fingers hopping from key to key, my thoughts hopping as well.  I don’t feel partnered.  No, this is me at a high school Friday night dance, with the coloured lights flashing, the music at a full volume bounce off the walls, my feet pounding invented rhythms, loads of energy tearing through.

If I want a lyrical piece of writing, I begin with pencil and paper and hand.  If I want an in-your-face piece of writing, I go straight to the laptop.

If I had to choose only one set of writing tools, it would be pencil and paper.  My writing moves deepest by hand, and that is what I am always reaching for.  I want the place that touches the heart.  For me, that is pencil in hand and a waltz across the page.

______________________________

My heart

an invitation

dance with me it says.

We bow, step and turn,

my life marked out in breath and beat.

A path of love

a walk of light,

and when I reach your door

my heart to yours

an invitation.

Dance with me.

Lullaby

Practice (detail)
Practice (detail)

The Universe, Source, was nudging me all last week, singing to me.  Ideas, suggestions.  Then it pointed me to Julia Cameron’s book The Vein of Gold, and the task ‘Lullaby’.  ‘For five minutes each day (five private minutes), hum or sing a lullaby to yourself.’  The task is on pages 164 to 166, if you are looking for it.

It is true, you know.  The world is music.  The world is sound.  We are sound.  Vibration.  Nada Brahma.

My Mom sang to me, to herself, and with the radio.  My Dad sang with me, my sister and brother, in his ‘own personal key of music’ as he would say, perfectly off tune.  In the late afternoon heat of July, Dad driving us home after swimming in the lake, singing Jingle Bells all the way.

My chosen lullabies, the songs I sing to myself, might not be what you would expect:

Continue reading “Lullaby”