Wednesday, January 24, 2018
Writing as root
The oaks stretch skyward with arms as big as buildings, beckoning wayward angels to perch home in their leaves. And the roots, the roots push upward as well, leaving their dirt houses, their land of wisdom.
Isn't that what we tend, to remove ourselves from the blanket of warmth, that tender web of knowing that this, yes THIS, is where we belong? We uproot and uprooted wander from stem to stream, begging for moss, for lichen and bread.
All do wander but not all are lost. Usually we come back round full circle, full moon to full moon and sit fallow, wanting. Then, if we sit long enough, if we quell this unholy itch, something will begin to grope and bury and we feel ourselves rise taller. Our arms, hanging lank, reach upward and stretch, stretch from spine to tip and we can feel - ah yes! - the glory of the clouds. Why did we roam? Why did we leave the deep places of our passing?
We leave to learn: about ourselves, about our world. We roam to wonder and hear tales from other lands. There's stories in the market, loves, been had and heard over pole beans and collards. Listen and you'll hear songs on that same marsh breeze, the one that smells of dank, rotten things. And always, always we come back to root, roosting on the eggshells and coffee grounds we tossed out from long days wandering.
Don't need them, we suppose, and topple them behind, and Spirit brings her broom and sweeps them onward to the place she knows we'll find. The ground is fertile because of our wanderings and when at long last we dig into that soil we can pick up the pen and draw up the ink blood and write the words our hearts have been beating all along.
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Where have you long wandered?
Where have you found your writing roots?
Have you wandered from genre to genre? From story to story? Or perhaps from self to self?
Me? I've wandered them all. But I'm feeling, quite frankly, a rooting on the rise.
[photo found HERE]
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