Where do the words come from?

After all these years

it’s still a mystery

how words flow from

some invisible source

through my arm 

to the pen in my hand

the ink flowing onto the page

letter by letter, word by word.

It feels like I inhale air

and exhale the alphabet.

My pen keeps forming phrases,

sentences, out of the blue

insists on amorphous thoughts

taking shape, becoming

stanzas, paragraphs, pages

that I turn in wonder

awed by the mystery

still trusting the process

curious how words appear

day after day out of nowhere.

Where do the words

come from?

After all these years

it's still a mystery. 

—

 

Writing as an act of remembrance

Writing on some mornings 

feels like an act of remembrance 

dredging up memories 

plunging your pen down a well 

and drawing up events 

from years ago 

reaching for people long gone 

loved ones you wish you could see again 

and embrace one more time 

and who, with your pen,

you can bring back to life 

if only for a moment 

your pen scratching the page 

their images in your head 

so that you feel as if you can reach 

through the page 

to touch them again

feel held by them 

can hear their voices one more time 

before they disappear beneath the page 

your pen recording the memory

your words the only evidence 

of their presence

At the edge of a cliff

Every time you 

sit down to write 

it's like standing 

at the edge of a cliff

and you never know 

how you'll make it across 

the abyss without falling 

there's no net 

to catch you, 

no rope to swing from

and each time 

you pick up a pen, 

it's like closing your eyes 

and jumping into the unknown,

never sure you'll make it 

to the other side,

but it's something 

you need to do 

without knowing why

(you can ask yourself 

why for years without

getting an answer),  and

it won't change anything,

every day you still

have to sit down to write, 

and it will feel the same:

standing at the edge of the cliff

waiting for a breeze

a voice

something

to compel you 

to take that step 

into the unknown

to spread your arms 

as if they're wings

and imagine yourself flying

high above the earth

no longer afraid

no longer hesitant

gliding through the air

your pen gliding across the page

no longer tethered to earth

or to fear

free

defying gravity

finding new ways

to be yourself.

It's like improv

You don't  have a plan. 

Each morning you take a pen 

and open your journal 

to see what will happen. 

It's this not knowing 

and your curiosity 

that brings you back 

to the page each day 

to see if you'll make 

a new discovery, 

a new way of understanding

yourself and the world, 

a new way of seeing life. 

It's like improv, 

the art of making something 

out of nothing, 

completely spontaneous, 

unscripted, 

just an empty page 

and a desire to find out 

what you're thinking 

and feeling 

in this moment.

Just an empty sky

No poems in sight

this morning,

just an empty horizon,

a cloudless sky without words

and mundane thoughts of errands

that need to be run,

visits to be made,

plans for the weekend,

prose without poetry--

like life without music--

no poems in sight

this morning,

just an empty sky.

Gifts from the sea

Some days words come unbidden

sailing onto the page like tiny boats

blown by the wind.

Some days the page remains blank,

empty, like a cloudless sky, like a vast

ocean with a distant horizon past

which you cannot see.

Some days you can only hear waves

washing against the shore, the fog

too thick to see anything.

Some days you look for shells,

hoping to find a word or story or poem

hidden inside, and you put it to your ear

to listen.

Some days you wait and wait

like a fisherman waiting for a tug

on his line wondering what's hidden

beneath the surface, wondering if

anything is there.

Some days rain falls so hard

you can't tell the difference between

sea and sky.

Some days the sun is so strong

the light blinds your eyes.

Some days you open your arms

to heaven and words appear--you don't

know why--and you gather them up, 

as many as you can hold, gifts from the sea 

to share with the world.

Do you ever wonder?

Do you ever wonder 

what the day will bring, 

what stories will come, 

what poems, what words?

Do you ever wonder

where the source of words 

is hidden, and how it opens 

and lets words flow every day?

Do you ever wonder 

why these words, not others, 

and why now, and why through 

your pen and not someone else's?

Do you ever wonder 

if you can live a life filled with words

without wanting more

than being able to write, 

to share the joy and mystery 

of words with others?

Do you ever wonder

if you can keep writing

day after day, week after week,

year after year, in the hope

words will unlock 

the mystery of why

you're here and 

who you are?

 

Reaching for words

Each morning you reach for words 

without knowing where to look 

like a blind man pawing the air 

hoping to find something to hold onto,

something to let you know where you are, 

something to guide you, 

and you keep moving your pen 

hoping the words will come and show 

you the way you need to go, 

even when you don't know where 

to go or if you need to go anywhere.

It's like drilling for oil or searching for water.

You keep searching not knowing if you'll find

what you're looking for, what you're hoping 

to find, so you keep moving your pen

across the page hoping if you write 

enough words you'll discover what you've 

been searching for, hoping the words 

will reveal a path you didn't see before, 

hoping you'll have the strength 

to follow the path.

A New Journal

A new journal
smells like glue
blank pages
unlined
waiting
to be filled
with words
like a bucket
waiting
to be filled
with water
or like a pot
waiting
to be filled
with fresh soil
where words
can be planted
where ideas
can grow.

Connecting

As long as your pen or pencil is moving across the page, your fingers typing at the keyboard, your words flowing onto the screen or onto a piece of paper, you are connecting with a part of yourself that is hidden until the moment you tease it out with words.

It doesn’t matter if you’re writing poetry or prose, it’s the act of writing that matters, the challenge of opening your heart to the world so you (and others, if you decide to share what you’ve written) can know what’s there and can make a connection.

Call what’s in your heart the treasure beneath the sea or the pearls hidden within a shell that only you can find if you have the patience to dive deeply enough and pry the shell open with a stroke of your pen, a tap of the next key.

Whether you’re writing every day in a journal, starting a new project, or returning to a work-in-progress, you come to the page each day, if you’re like me, in the hope of connecting with the deepest part of your self, each word offering a chance to discover something new about yourself or your life that will help you understand how to live fully in each moment.

If you’re writing, you are connecting with the air you breathe, the sound of leaves rustling overhead, the taste of a peach on a warm summer day.

You are connecting with memories and with the people around you, with the feel of sea spray on your skin, with rain falling against your eyelids, with snowflakes tickling your lips and nose.

You are connecting with those you love who are no longer alive and with the person you once were and the person you are becoming.

No matter what you are writing, you’re connecting with each moment of life and with yourself as you experience life in all its mystery and beauty.

What’s so strange and wonderful about writing is the way the process reveals thoughts and emotions that you don’t always know you have until you see the thoughts and emotions expressed in the words that you write and which appear on the page in front of you like gifts from the sea.

Whatever you’re writing this morning or tomorrow or later this week, I hope you’ll persist and keep writing so you can find whatever you’re looking for.

I hope that you’ll make the connection with the deepest part of your heart so that you keep coming back to the page and learn more.

I hope you’ll keep writing and searching and exploring, and, after you’ve spent time writing, I hope you’ll look down at whatever you’ve written and discover what is most important to you.

Mostly, I hope you’ll take that first step… even if it feels like you're stepping into thin air... and find the treasure waiting for you.  

x

To The Sea

Some say you should

start a poem with a

title

just write the words

at the top of the page

and begin

as if a poem is a

waterfall and the

title is the edge

of the cliff and

the words will spill

over the edge

once they begin

to fall, splashing

onto the page,

but I like the idea

of starting without

a title, wandering

aimlessly across the

page, the words

searching for a path

like a river meandering

through the soft earth

finding its way eventually

to the sea—

which might, in the end,

be the title you were looking

for all along.

-->

Each time I put pen to paper

Each time I put pen
to paper the pen takes
an unexpected turn,
this way or that,
a new path I hadn't
seen before that moment
of discovery.

It's what makes the
act of writing so
fraught with tension,
the not knowing
what will happen,
the not knowing if
anything will happen,
or if the pen will stand
motionless over the page
not moving at all,
leaving the page as fresh
and unmarked (without
a ripple) as when
I sat down to begin.

The secret to writing is,
simply, to begin, to let
the pen move across the
page, not knowing what
will come next, the nib
touching the blankness
of the page, and, like a
pebble skipping across
the still surface of
a pond, sending ripples
outward, reaching
toward shore.

Keep the Pen Moving

Keep the pen moving.

It’s a skill that you need to learn.

When you’re first beginning, it’s hard to keep the pen moving.

You search for the right word, grope for the appropriate image, hunt for the proper tone.

You hesitate, worrying about what a reader might think of your work. 

You fear making a mistake. 

You sit staring at the paper and wait for the story to write itself, but, of course, it won’t write itself.

You may have no idea of where your story is going or what you want to say.

So you think you have nothing to write, no path to follow.

But here’s what you need to remember: each time you set out to write, you carve a new path.

Only the path won’t appear if you are critical or judgmental.

The first thing you need to do is to let go of notions of "good" and "bad."

You need to be willing to write down whatever comes out of your mind and accept it and let go.

  

Without judgment.

Keep the pen moving.

Let words come.

Let words emerge, whatever words they might be, however silly or foolish or ridiculous or mysterious the words may sound.

Over time you'll learn this and then you'll forget it and you'll need to keep re-learning it.

Keep the pen moving.

No pauses.

No stopping to think.

Just keep writing.

Even if all you write is keep writing or don’t stop or this sounds like the ranting of a lunatic, keep writing

What emerges once you let go of your critical censor will surprise you.

You will reach beneath the surface of language and will find a place where words emerge and images and scenes play on the screen of your imagination.

If you keep the pen moving, you will find the words you need.

But only if you learn how to suspend your critical eye and cease judging the words that flow from your pen.

Keep the pen moving.

Ready. Set. Go!

Twenty minutes each morning—whether I’m ready to write or not, whether I’m sleepy or awake, whether my back aches or my fingers hurt—I write.

Fast. Nonstop. For twenty minutes.

It’s like digging fast. Just digging. Taking a shovel. Putting it into the earth. Lifting soil. Repeat. Again and again. Twenty minutes. Each day.

There’s something about getting the hand in motion, about the brain-hand-motion relationship, that starts the words flowing and gives access to a part of the brain ordinarily hidden.

Come out, shy brain!

These morning pages—twenty minutes, fast!—seem to awaken it, help it move into the light, help the words form and begin flowing down my arm to my pen.

I can’t say why it happens or how it works—like how I can’t say why a car engine comes on when I turn the ignition key. All I know is that it works and the car will take me where I want to go.

(On some level I’m curious, of course, but not curious enough to research the science behind it. Just knowing it works most days is enough.)

So, each morning I turn the key in the ignition. I pick up my pen. I open my journal. I click the start button on my timer (which I set for 20 minutes). And I write.

What I discover depends on so many things—my mood when I awake; what might have happened yesterday (or last week) or right before I went to sleep; what I might have dreamed about (or not dreamed); what I remember on a given morning; what emotions might rise to the surface.

Anything and everything can trigger a reason to write—a note on Facebook, a story in the paper or on the TV news, a conversation I had with my brother, thoughts about an upcoming trip, worries about a family member’s health.

I never know what will appear on the page before I sit down at my desk and begin. It is a mystery.

It’s a mystery that contains the question: “What happens next?”

Writing is the only way I know to answer that question.

What happens next?

Write... and find out.

Letting Go of the Shore

Good morning, swimmers.

You can set your towels on the beach chairs and pick up your goggles, if you want them, in the box under the sun umbrella.

Today we’re going to try something new.

At the sound of the horn, we’ll dive into the depths of our own imagination and swim for 10 minutes.

You don’t need to know what you’re going to write about before jumping into the water. The point of this invitation is to encourage you to let go of expectations and simply immerse yourself in the process of writing.

The key, in fact, is not holding on to the edge of the shore clinging to what you know, but being willing to swim into unknown waters with only your eyes and ears and instinct to guide you.

The water temperature this morning (off Lido Beach in Sarasota, FL) is in the high 60s, and there’s a light chop with 1 - 2 foot waves and a mild breeze. I hope you’ll find this morning’s swim refreshing.

Are you read to dive in?

At the sound of the horn, set your watch for 10 minutes and begin writing on one of the following:

• What’s the difference between determination and perseverance?
• What are your memories associated with the color blue?
• Who inspired you to write? Describe that person, and your memory of feeling inspired.

Or take the time that you’re swimming in the water to fill in the blanks to the following, and then expand into a scene to show your character in action:

• Your character is determined to do ____ but _____ stands in his or her way. To get past this obstacle, your character must _____ so that _____.

Here we go: H-O-R-N B-L-A-R-E-S!!!!

By taking the time to free-write, you may find yourself letting go of pre-conceived notions of what you think you should write and simply enjoy the process of writing.

Afterward, you can stay around and play in the water, float on your back and gaze up at the clouds, or unfold your blanket on the beach and enjoy the feel of sand beneath your feet. (Maybe even share what you've written with other swimmers.)

But right now, while you’re in the water swimming, just enjoy swimming.

For more information about the benefits of free-writing, visit:

http://www.mindbodygreen.com/0-955/Why-You-Should-Get-Your-Journal-Out.html

http://www.ornaross.com/2009/02/benefits-f-r-e-e-writing/

http://www.mindbodygreen.com/0-955/Why-You-Should-Get-Your-Journal-Out.html

http://www.writingthroughlife.com/journal-writing-tips-the-benefits-of-freewriting

http://web.mst.edu/~gdoty/classes/concepts-practices/free-writing.html

http://www.ehow.com/about_4570090_what-free-writing.html

And for conditions at Lido Beach, check out:

http://srqk12.net/BeachConditions/LidoBeach.aspx