Unmoored

It's the beginning of the year

and I feel unmoored, unsure 

what direction to swim in.

Do you feel unmoored, too?

Here we are waiting for the wind 

to offer us a clue, treading water,

floating in place, befuddled by the way

uncertainty replaces certainty.

At the moment it's impossible 

to choose which way to go.

All paths have been erased,

all destinations hidden,

so how can we find the route 

we're meant to follow?

How long can we keep treading 

water before sinking to the bottom?

What is keeping us afloat?

Maybe it's all just a matter of allowing 

ourselves a chance to rest, 

to step out of the water,

to regain our strength. 

Maybe this is how to let the well fill up again?

Listen, it's the beginning of the year, 

and there's hope that a path will appear 

tomorrow or maybe the next day, 

and that we'll know what we didn't know 

a moment ago: the path we're meant to follow,

the way we're meant to go.

Replenishing the well

Lately I've shortened the time I spend writing in the morning.

In part it's an effort to re-charge my energy after a busy month and give myself a rest. The chance to rest will, I hope, help replenish the well out of which all words come. 

Every so often I think the well, which feels close to empty now, needs time to refill itself.  

I don't remember the last time I took a break. All I know is that month after month words have flowed from my pen, and that I've held the pen waiting to see what emerged. 

I never know what word will appear until its shape forms on the page beneath my pen. It's part of the mystery of how writing works.

This process of stepping into the mystery day after day, and not knowing what I'll find, is part of what keeps drawing me back to the page. 

I try not to have any expectations (just hope that I'll be able to write something). 

It's like receiving a gift, the feel of the pen in my hand, the sensation of moving the pen across the page, the sound of the nib scraping the paper, the sign of words appearing, as if by magic, on the page. 

And maybe what draws me back, too, is the simple act of leaving words behind on a page like footprints in the sand.

Evidence to show that I existed, at least for a day.

Before the waves of time wash the words away. 

It's that time of year

It's that time of year.

Close your eyes. 

Sleep.

Let yourself dream.

You need to trust the process 

of rebirth, of dormancy, 

of silence turning into words

when the words are ready 

to appear.

You need to stop writing

in order to keep writing,

to close your journal so

you can open it again,

to put down your pen

so you can pick it up 

after you've had a chance

to rest,

revived, 

restored.

You need to feel the rhythm 

of life without holding a pen 

in your hand, to meet life 

head on, bare-handed, 

without protection,

vulnerable.

You need to let each day 

sink into you, let the world 

turn, let yourself accept

whatever comes with gratitude 

for where you are, 

for who you are.

A week from now 

you can pick up 

your pen to express 

in words what you 

can't say 

without it.

For now let yourself 

embrace the silence.

Be still.

Listen to your heart.

Open your ears to the wind.

Let your heart open, too, 

so you can sail in

whatever direction

your spirit takes you 

in the new year.

Stepping Out of the Water

Remember when you leaped as a child into the waves and splashed and dived for hours, and by the end of the afternoon you could hear your mother calling from the beach to tell you it was time to get out of the water?

You’d turn toward shore, wading reluctantly through the waves, letting the surge of the ocean push you closer to the beach even as the undertow pulled you back into the sea.

Once you stood on the beach, you could feel the warm sand on the soles of your feet and between your toes.

You’d wrap yourself in a large beach towel and taste salt on your lips and still feel the waves lifting you up to the sky then swinging you down toward the ocean bottom.

“Purple lips,” your mom would say, tugging the towel tighter over your shoulders so your lips might stop trembling.

You’d examine the pale skin on the end of your fingers, so wrinkled that the fingertips looked like tiny white raisins.

The salt would dry on the back of your neck and on the edge of your nose, and the skin under your eyes and on the top of your ears would start to sting from the salt and the sun.

Remember how you never wanted to leave the water? Remember always wanting to stay in longer, wanting to feel the power of the ocean surging under you, over you, and into you with each wave?

It’s how I feel every year at this time when I have to leave behind unfinished projects and step out of the water before I’m ready.

I can almost hear my mother’s voice again: “Come in, it’s time to dry off!”

There I am on the water's edge again–a skinny boy, teeth chattering, lips blue, goose bumps crawling up my arms.

I’m standing on the beach gazing back at the sea, looking at the precise spot where I spent the last few hours floating in the waves, and I want to go back in even though I know that I have to wait until tomorrow or, if our vacation is coming to an end, next summer.

As I clear my desk now in preparation for this annual break, I'm standing on the beach (in my mind) looking back at the past year that I’ve swum through, awed by the power of the water to keep drawing me back to it.

I’m humbled by the strength of the waves and the undertow of words that have flowed through my pen onto paper and into the world this past year.

And I’m especially grateful for the chance to share my thoughts with you.

In a few weeks, once I’ve had a chance to dry off and rest from this past year of swimming steadily across an unknown sea, I’ll write again.

For now, though, I’m taking a break, and hope you’ll find a chance to rest, too, in the weeks ahead.

With luck, we’ll meet on the beach in a few weeks, and we'll return to the water and swim together in search of words and stories again.

Hope you’ll join me then.

For more on the benefits of taking a break from writing, visit:
http://ezinearticles.com/?A-Writers-Day-Off---What-Are-the-Benefits?&id=5219544
http://www.helium.com/knowledge/150797-when-you-should-take-a-break-from-writing
http://writinghood.com/writing/sometimes-a-writer-has-to-take-a-break/
http://howtoplanwriteanddevelopabook.blogspot.com/2010/12/rest-breaks-for-book-writers-feeding.html
http://inkygirl.com/inkygirl-main/2011/2/22/reminder-to-writers-dont-forget-to-take-regular-breaks.html
http://terri-treasures.blogspot.com/2010/11/what-are-benefits-of-blogging-break.html
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/anne-hill/the-benefits-of-taking-a-_b_801015.html
http://www.murphywrites.com/2011/05/17/5-things-that-can-keep-writers-on-track/

Drying Off

It’s that time of year when I pull myself out of the water and let my fingers and toes dry out.

I step out of the surf and walk on dry land again, wanting to feel the air on my skin and the earth beneath my feet.

In the past I used to dread leaving the water.

I was afraid that I’d never find my way back into the pool, that the source of words inside me would dry up, and that I’d never write another word.

But I need to rest after intense periods of work as a way of replenishing the pools within me.

It’s taken years for me to become used to these cycles, to become aware of the rhythms that my body needs to follow so that my internal well can fill with words again.

Each time I step out of the water, I have to remind myself that writing is about stepping into the flow of words rather than controlling the words.

Here’s what Stephen Cope’s friend, Rudi, says about writing in Cope’s The Wisdom of Yoga:

“You know,” Rudi said, “you think you’re guiding the process. But you’re not. You’re not guiding the process of your writing, any more than you’re guiding the process of your awakening. The truth is, you don’t have a clue what the failure of this book means. It’s probably a success hiding out as a failure.”

Reading Cope’s book –and others like it– have helped me over the past year learn that I’m a different writer when I let go of the desire to control the words.

When I can release my fears and let the words flow, I can hear my voice.

Not the voice that I think I should hear.

The voice that I need to hear.

And stepping out of the water to rest is simply part of the process of listening for this voice.

See you back in the water in a few weeks.