Once upon a time there was a girl who
loved to write and had so much to say about life and about the world and about
her life. Her words were light and
always gave insight (to at least herself—and often to others reading). Sometimes her words were playful. Other times, serious. But they were always there…Offering her bits
of understanding and bits of humor, making the pieces of her life tie together
and offering others the same.
One day, after a year of many sadnesses
and extreme busyness, the words seemed to go away. Gratitudes still existed. But stories and essays and poems, often on
the tip of her pen and always in her mind went away. Became dormant. And writing as she knew it stopped.
She accepted that there is a rhythm to
life and with that a rhythm to words on a page, so except for a few words in a
morning journal and a few gratitudes at night her writing stopped. For a while, she hoped. The words were beneath the surface. Awaiting.
She thought that but wasn’t sure.
What if they were gone?
About a year passed, with rarely a word
written or a word shared. Winter came
with mountains of piled high snow and sub-zero degree temperatures. A time when waiting happens. A time when life continues under the
surface. And her words continued to
sleep.
Yet, March was just around the
corner. Spring not quite ready for
arrival but awaiting. She knew
this. She knew that words were
invited. Still she said, “I don’t have
anything to say. The words aren’t
there.”
But the space was and the invitation
was. For the last several years this
writer wrote every day during the month of March, sharing her words and reading
others. And the time was almost upon her
again. Yet her words were buried under
the snow. Her idea mill empty.
She assumed for the months preceding
that March would come and go and her words would remain unreleased. Her presence devoid. Then she woke one morning, and with sun
streaming on her as she sat in her chair, writing her obligatory morning pages
she wondered…what if. The doubts crept
in. “I don’t have a bank of ideas.” “I don’t have things to offer, to say.” “I don’t have the writing space or time.” All true for her.
Yet, the what if lingered. What if...
What if she used this dormancy to not
need to write about any thing big?
What if she used the time for practice
rather than perfection?
What if she chose to, on her busiest
days carve out only five minutes to share a few words?
What if the practice itself was what would
help the words go from underground to fruition?
The work seemed daunting. The challenge inviting. And the slate empty going in.
What if…
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for
dedicating space and time for teachers and teachers of literacy to come
together to share ideas, practice and life experience.
