movement

the raising of hands
the freedom of it
the spontaneity of it

the folding of arms
the instinct of it
the comfort of it

the closing of eyes
the desire of it
the necessity of it

the kneeling of knees
the humility of it
the pause of it

to write

How many notebooks and journals have I filled? Numerous. I used to live to write. I would sequester myself in my room, light all my candles (at least 15), turn off my lights, burn a little incense, crack open my current "tablet," and put pen to paper. Sometimes I would rushwrite--write whatever came as fast as it came. Other times I would do character sketches, jot beautiful couplets unattached to anything else, or simply vent frustrations. When I felt especially down or when I lacked energy or spark, I would crank up some Tori Amos and just write her lyrics down as she sang them out.

And now? Time's a luxury. Time to write even more so. I know I can "make" time, but right now I feel I'm just scraping by. I try to write as much as I can, but when I've grabbed a few moments I usually can only think of how tired I am or how much stuff I have to do.

But I'm still trying. I'm still pushing my pen to paper. I don't know what will ever come of it. I'm not saying anything grand has to come of it. For me, for now, simply feeling good about creating is a dandy enough reason for me. So I'm grateful for the twenty minutes I took to write this post in addition to this one (nothing much, very off the top of my head). I'm hoping to put something up over there at least once a month. I think that's a goal I can achieve. We'll see.

Anyhow, happy new week to whomever happens to read these babblings of mine.