Yesterday I literally had all day to write and I stumbled. I tried to write a poem and nothing came. I was like an addict, randomly pulling poems from the shelf trying to be inspired, trying to get my next hit. Nothing seemed remarkable to me. I quieted down, I did what another poet told me to do: sit down and write about what is on your mind. I heard crickets in my brain. Even with war, my concern with the educational system, a rainy day, health issues, there was *nothing* on my mind.
I know, how can a person think about nothing. I guess a better way to put that was that there was nothing I wanted to write about. I wasn't looking for the perfect poem, I hadn't created high standards for myself, I just wasn't interested in writing, in thinking, in exploring any subject. I sent emails. I wandered around the house and had lunch. I kept returning to the kitchen for snacks. I mixed carob chips with ginger. I picked all the almonds out of my granola. I finally got up and left my desk realizing that though I was there with everything that I physically needed to write--time, computer, solitary environment, music if I chose--I wasn't there, well, not as a poet.
A friend mentioned to me that another time I felt this way was a time when I wasn't getting out much and having experiences in life. I responded that there are only so many eagles and herons you can write about, only so much fog that cover your deck, or the ferry crossing again and again. I know Ms. Dickinson lived a rich life in her mind and words, but I find myself needing to wander into the world every so often and into new places to see the world in a fresh way.
When I arrived to my small town, I noticed everything that was different--the kingfishers, the killdeers, the broken barns, the spiderwebs between the powerlines highlighted in dew, the strange covered areas at the end of their dirt roads so someone could wait for a school bus, the old '56 Chevy truck that crashed into blackberry bushes and there it remained through each of the seasons. Sometimes it's hard to see my life with new eyes, with the "I feel like we're on vacation" feeling I had when we moved here ten years ago.
Back then, I felt we had rented a beach house and I found new words spilling from others lips--mud flats, ravine, sandpiper, cormorants, Rollercoaster Road. I'm going to step out in the world again, in my world with new eyes and be off to new places. But not today...my husband just arrived home with Chinese take-out and we're off to pretend we're 23 again and spend the day watching movies, pretend there's not a care in this wonderfulawful world.
