Each of the birthdays referenced in
my last blog posts came about by coincidence. I noted the days because these
author’s books influence my writing. Margaret Wise Brown (May 23) for her
simple story lines and comforting words that enchant the youngest readers, and
those who love them. Beatrix Potter (July 28) for her whimsical stories and
illustrations so grounded in place. Mary Oliver for her carefully crafted words
that float off pages to touch places seen, and not seen. Their grounding in nature,
sense of place, and brief, lyrical lines capture my attention. All women wrote
in homes near rivers or lakes and the ocean. All independent voices. All
devoted to their art.
All I will fall short of, but I do
note that none of these woman had their own children. My journey is to find
myself apart from all the opinions and expectations pushed on me. A woman of my
time buying into the myth of having it all. Family, pay check, success. No one
has it all. We all have our own journeys. Mine grows from nature and art.
I search with pencil and camera in
nature and places for flow, for stories that reveal so slowly that only
persistence, not confidence, is with me. My voice seeks to be lyrical and
light. I have learned that only countless rewriting and time to simmer words
works. I’m definitely on a long, solitary journey.
For much of the last three years, my
writing has been lost. Blog posts reflect this. I keep dusting my compass. Others
derail me. Earlier this year I sustained a concussion in an accident, so I now
feel like Rip Van Winkle waking up. I am writing. In the last few weeks I have
moved my desk around to face north.
A few workshops and critiques are on
my calendar. I am finding my stories. Lessons from a lifetime of workshop teachers
hover at my elbows—light as a bubble, words that sing, writing so invisible it
flows, a turn, a lift, and “the unsayable said” (Donald Hall, 1993).
My voice in writing is concise, but layered,
with lyrical words, with a turn and lifting, and with words to hear the unsaid. Words that float on the wind.
Words that can reveal as a day breaks. Will I be heard? This is a writer’s life,
accidental, but for perseverance of an inner spirit seeking to have voice.
