October 9

Notes from a week:

I am standing in the kitchen on Tuesday, and it’s nearly black outside. I flip on the kettle. It’s only one p.m. A storm blows through. All day I wander around. It feels like something’s missing, but I can’t put my finger on it. I’m still in pain. I tell my daughter it’s like having the TV on all the time and trying to find quiet. My body is always buzzing with pain.

***

I miss the sound of my own voice, the way it felt to hear it coming out of my mouth in ripples like a stone in a pond.

***

I had a conversation that became a comparing of notes: This is what my pain is like. It wasn’t so much griping as an opportunity to hear each other. It didn’t solve anything, but I felt seen. And I needed to feel seen.

***

“Maybe the desire to make something beautiful / is the piece of God that is inside each of us.” —Mary Oliver

***

I should be working but instead I’m reading through old blog posts, old things I’ve written years ago. I wonder how. How did I write this? What did that feel like? I search for an answer, fingerprints on paper, but it’s all a blur. All I know, the only thing I recognize, is the voice. It’s mine, for sure.

***

An experiment: Start the day stretching instead of on the couch. Move body. Change the early morning energy. Gain some momentum. See what happens next.

***

A prayer: “Oh God of peace, who has taught us that in returning and rest we shall be saved, in quietness and in confidence shall be our strength: By the might of thy Spirit lift us, we pray thee, to thy presence, where we may be still and know that thou art God.“

***

The week ends with a quiet conversation. The sunlight is fading me. Maybe I’m wilting. I listen and think. So many places I’ve searched, turning over pebbles and stones. Who can tell me who I am? Who can help me speak? Except this: I know how to speak. And so does this friend who says:

Stop resisting the way you write & see.
Don’t be so hard on yourself.
You know what to do.
Trust it.