The Journal

thinking, writing, learning

Needing an Assist

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This poem I wrote for one of Donna’s photographs seems to fit me today. I’ve been struggling a little…so I’m looking for words.

LOW TIDE
Some days, I am like the turtle
flipped over, struggling,
wanting to fling myself upright.
I've learned to look for small
assists: a vibrant glow of sunrise,
bright tulips sprouting in early spring,
a skein of geese honking their positions,
these help buoy me.
I've been thinking, too, of water,
how sea salt washes us clean,
even when we don't know
we need a cleansing.

Changing My Thoughts

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One of my goals/intentions/hopes is to catch myself when I am heading down a dark hole (catastrophizing or other cognitive distortions) and to stop, breathe, and break the cycle. I was reading a blog post today, and the author wrote that she says to herself: This is not a big deal. I like that. Most of what happens to us is NOT a big deal.

I also don’t beat myself up for letting this happen over and over because my mind has been “trained” to do this. Regardless of what the early little t’s (small traumas) were or how often they happened, they had an impact. It’s an automatic response when the negative voices in my head start in. Today I caught myself, and said, “Susie, this is not a big deal.” Then I went to the kitchen and made blueberry muffins.

It worked.

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What I’m reading/listening to:

Peter Attila’s new book: Outlive (the last section on mental health had the most impact for me)

Ten Percent Happier with Dan Harris and Jon Kabat-Zinn “Tripping Out With a Legend”

Now What

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Poetry, rather writing, has framed my life as long as I can remember.

As a ten-year-old, I wandered around the neighborhood trying to “sell” my hand-scratched newspapers. Though I never kept a diary or journal regularly, I found myself turning to writing when I needed to figure out what I was thinking. Going through a divorce meant writing my way through it. And then when life became complicated and painful, I turned to poetry.

Having just completed a meaningful poetry/photography project with friend Donna Hopkins about family and aging, I find myself without a plan for my writing. That means putting pen to paper in whatever way feels good– like sketching! I’ve learned to let go of perfection- like the yellow sky in the sketch here that drips into where the water should be. Or the published poetry that should be in a different form. It’s the process, I’ve learned, that matters.

Wherever I am in my life (and whoever I am), I’ve discovered I need to create. I don’t like to cook or garden, but give me a pen and I’m content.

Czesław Miłosz once wrote:

The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors, 
and invisible guests come in and out at will

An Ending and a Beginning

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When I browse the archives of my posts, I discover the words “starting over” many times. Now, here I am at the end of something again. My project with friend and photographer Donna Hopkins has come to a natural conclusion, a year of photo/poetry collaboration and much more. Her explanation shares all you need to know about our project, so please visit her site to see more photos and the focus of the year-long partnership.

Donna’s photos provided me with much inspiration to write– about aging, parents, failure, friendship, and life. Her photography perspectives gave me an opportunity to consider different perspectives in my writing. I was finally writing for myself. Our book holds truth, pain, joy, and vulnerability of who we are, of what these moments at this point in our lives reveal.

This bittersweet conclusion won’t end our friendship, though. In fact, I am hoping we will leap into another creative adventure before long. We share much in common, and working with Donna is a joy. She brings out the best in me.

So now, another beginning. Creativity connects me to myself, provides a window into who I am.

Let the next project begin!

Time to Think

Houses line my daily walk,
small, some old, a mansion
on the hill, the dog park.
I never veer, so my mind
tucks into itself, stepping
one thought after another.
Bright sun spoofs me
with winter’s bitter breath.
I am the stranger
walking by your house,
waiting for spring flowers,
a revelation, a peek of yellow 
or perhaps radiant rose.

Peppers in my kitchen grow
under lights, lush leafy green,
higher each day. A sign
of what has been planted
and what is to come.