My assignment for today's writing was an unexpected one. I sat down in one of our 1950s Knoll manufactured orange tweed one-armed chairs that we bought at auction because we loved it, despite its only arm being worn and frayed. Its partner is in slightly better shape. Together they make an imperfectly perfect pair like Michael and me. In front of me on our yard sale-found Eames designed coffee table water-marked with glass rings from gatherings gone by, is an old olive oil bottle holding a thrush of full-bloomed red and yellow blended Mikado roses and a copy of Poets & Writers. The roses are beautiful and they urge me to write about them, to relish in their lush layers. Instead I pick up the magazine and browse for any submission ideas. Submissions are the only overwhelming aspect of writing for me. I love writing and rewriting, but finding a magazine or online literary journal that might accept one of my poems is daunting. I happened upon an essay under a segment titled Why We Write. At the end, there was an open invitation to share essays of our own experiences and stories about why we write. There was my prompt.
I took my Moleskine notebook stuffed with poems in progress and filled with crooked, sideways, and messy writing and began a new page. I lost track of time but spent a good portion of it trying to identify the type of roses that were on the coffee table. In the end, I wrote a mini autobiography of how I came to write. it was a bit cathartic. Here are two larger excerpts of my essay:
I did not get a degree in Liberal Arts, instead I opted for
the more practical science degree of Physical Therapy. I studied art throughout
high school and received several local and national art awards, but I didn’t have
the courage or the confidence to pursue it as a career choice. I could be guaranteed a career in Physical
Therapy. I did not touch a brush again for twenty years.
Not satisfied with the strict allopathic methods of treatment,
I leaned more towards the holistic approach of manual therapy. Ten years into
my career, I pursued a certificate in Massage Therapy to complement the
conservative methods. With the license to use my hands holistically, helping
others, I felt like an artist again. I
was able to encourage healing in a manner different that I could within my
physical therapy profession. I established a private practice and it became an
early success. Working for myself gave me the freedom to feel whole and in
control of my destiny, at least career- wise, at least for the present
moment. I did not know that I was on a
trail that would bring me back to art and to love.
I believe that during a massage therapy session, when there
is a trusting relationship, energy channels open and inspiration and healing
flows. It may be the last line of a poem,
an answer to a problem, or oxygen to a tight muscle. Our breath becomes fuller and with each
breath is an opportunity to relax, expand, heal and grow. We take an average of
one thousand breaths a day. That’s one
thousand opportunities. How eye-opening is that?
I was probably only paying attention to one tenth of those
thousand breaths but it was enough to listen to love and truth when they
presented themselves, unannounced. Almost ten years later, I was trying to once
again balance my conservative and alternative selves. With a successful
practice to acknowledge, I was encouraged to take another leap of faith. I divorced from a neutral marriage and let my
heart feel its pulse.
Paying attention to another tenth of the one
thousand breaths, and with the book Love
Poems from God given by my best friend, and a mini CVS steno pad, I began to write. It wasn’t a brush (although I have since completed two water-color
portraits of my children), but it was my hand and my spirit moving creatively
again, and it was liberating. Soon, the lined paper and the size of the steno
pad was too constricting, and I opted for the blank pages of the Moleskine
notebooks...
Three years, nine hand-held and six-and-a-half 8 x11 sized
Moleskine notebooks later, I am still writing. My love and now husband, is a
painter and we have collaborated on several exhibits featuring his paintings
and my poetry. They are collections of shared love and joy we find in the
everyday. I’ve read such classic
writer’s literature books as Western Wind
and Writing Down the Bones and I found an outstanding mentor with whom I meet
biweekly to challenge and encourage me when I have no idea why I am spending
the hours of a part-time job fooling with words. I subscribe to Poets &
Writers, Ploughshares, New England Review and several other literary gems. I do not have a published book of poetry and
all of my submissions to date have been rejected, except for one. Does it count if my husband is a professor at
the university whose literary magazine is the only one that did accept my
poems? It’s okay. I’m still an emerging poet. Aren’t we all emerging somehow? I
hope so.
I spent eight hours writing today, sitting in our studio with Michael painting a few feet away. We swam and worked in the gardens that are heralding new wildflowers, squash, and purple string beans. Today, I feel like a real writer. Its a wonderful way to live..."vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore"
Thank you carrot friends who take the time to read.
~Bess
