Rituals & Writing
I mostly write in the morning. I have the clean slate of a new day and the optimism that comes with it. The sun begins to rise and I am there to see it. I light a candle or burn oil scented in eucalyptus, lavender or lemon. In the kitchen, I fix something warm to drink; coffee, herbal tea or hot water with lemon and honey. I take a few sips and my mind clears.
As of late, I write from the reclining chair in my bedroom. The chair is squeezed between my bed and a large drafty window. It is winter now and I keep an electric heater in front of the chair. I will interrupt my writing and my reclined position to turn it on and off. It seems a little silly — to get up and down, to put aside and pick back up — determined to feel just right. This is what I do.
In spite of the hope for a new day, my friends Doubt and Looming Dread have arrived. They are cruel, asking me questions that I cannot answer. I’ve spent too much time debating with them. I have come to realize that my victory is in the movement of my pen. In spite of their chatter, I settle into the reclining chair.
I wrap a throw or quilt around me. Most often, I select a pink and burgundy throw. When folded, it becomes a pillow with an embroidered cat. This one, and many others, was made by my mother. What she could not say, she stitched; just as I write what I cannot say. Around me abide warmth and comfort from stitched hopes and prayers.
Seated, I have my tools — a worthy pen, a journal or a laptop. I am at the place where I have been before; I have everything, but still wanting. It seems odd that I would make this journey over and over again, only to arrive with nothing to greet me; not even inspiration.
Mechanically, I put words to the page. The first few are foreign to me. In time, phrases present themselves and I know them to be true. I keep going; accepting the foreign and welcoming the familiar. I find myself in a groove. As I am taken from revelation to revelation; I cheer, witness, ponder and play. At least once, I will declare myself a friggin’ genius, mooning over a masterpiece phrase. This is long before I discover that this masterpiece phrase will not work and may never work. It will be stored away with many like it, waiting for its time to come. But for now, I am invincible.
The brightness of the morning signals that this journey has come to an end. Conflicted and a little sad, I put away my tools. I am also grateful, to know this is good — to declare, to pour out and receive; to perform a revolutionary act of faith. To write.
