Waiting for your heart to open

You sit waiting 

for your heart to open,

to reveal the words 

you need to write,

like waiting for a blossom 

to push its green shoots up 

out of the earth

and unfold its petals.

You close your eyes 

and listen to your breath,

your pen motionless 

above the blank page,

waiting,

like waiting for 

a starter's gun to go off,

like waiting for birds 

to arrive at the bird feeder,

like waiting 

for a fish to bite

and the line to grow taut.

You sit listening to the clock on your desk 

ticking away the minutes

wondering if words 

will ever come

or if you'll sit here

wrapped in silence

forever

waiting for your heart 

to open a crack,

for the first word

to slip out

onto the page,

then the next word, 

and the next.

Patience, you whisper.

Trust, you tell yourself.

The words will come.

Just touch the paper with your pen 

and begin...

Hide and seek

Where do you look 

for poems, for stories,

where do you find the words 

you need to write,

where are they hiding, waiting 

for you to discover them?

It's like playing a game 

of hide-and-seek, isn't it?

You search inside your journal, between 

the blank pages, hoping to find them there,

or you look inside the barrel of your pen

wondering if they're concealed there,

or you examine the book you're reading

to see if they might have gotten lost in its pages,

or you look outside your office window on the chance

they might be floating like clouds in the air

and all you need to do is

reach out and grab them,

or maybe they went for a ride on the wings

of the crows cawing above the roof

and you just have to wait

for them to return,

or maybe they're like beads on a string

wrapped around your wrist

only you can't see them until

you reach for your pen and open your journal 

and begin moving your hand across the page 

like this.

Waiting for as long as it takes

No matter how many poems you’ve read or
how many pages you’ve turned,

no matter how many rhymes and
line breaks you’ve heard,

no matter how much you want to add your voice
to the poems already in the world,

no matter how long you hold your pen
over the page,

you still have to wait for the words to come,
still have to learn patience

and how to surrender
to the mystery of silence,

still have to admit you don’t know anything,
still have no idea where the words come from

or how they make their way from their source
onto the page (through you),

still need to close your eyes and pray
words will appear on the page,

that your hand will welcome
whatever comes,

still need to promise you’ll wait
for as long as it takes

because it’s what you do
for what you love.
—

Out of thin air

Waiting for words

to appear on the page

my pen poised

above a blank

sheet of paper

like a heron

patiently watching

the water as smooth

as the surface of glass

for a sign of life--

the slightest ripple--

waiting for the perfect

moment to strike

and catch a surprised fish

in its beak.

My pen, too,

waiting for

the perfect moment

to strike

and catch

a word, surprised,

as it leaps

out of thin air

onto the page.

A space of your own

When you’re trying to write, it’s critical to set aside a space of your own that has no distractions, a place where you can let your imagination roam free and take flight without fear of falling.

It’s a place where you can play without fearing criticism or judgment, a place where you can fail as many times as you need to fail without feeing embarrassment or shame.

It’s a place where you can simply sit, if you so choose, and watch clouds float by or listen to the gurgling of a stream or shut your eyes and dream or sleep, if that’s what you need to do.

It’s a place where there are no rules, where there’s nothing you have to do and nowhere you have to go, as my yoga teacher likes to remind us when we step on the mat to begin our class.

It’s a place where you can laugh or cry, open a door to the past and let memories flood the room without worrying about where you’re going or when you have to return home.

It’s a place where you can savor the sight of a blank page waiting for words.

It’s a place where you can sprout wings and fly from the present to the past or into the future, a place where your pen is like a magic key that can open the door to a world that you’ve never seen before.

All of us need to set aside time so we can spend a few minutes each day in these spaces to create the work that we need to create.

May you find the space you need today and in the days ahead to create the work you’re meant to bring into the world. 

Revise, revise, revise

If you want your words

to sing on the page

you need to keep harmonizing, 

keep testing different notes, trying

different combinations of words

arranging and rearranging,

then rearranging again

until the words on the page

find the order they are meant to appear in 

as if the final draft 

is a lock’s combination

that you can only discover

through multiple turnings

as if the words themselves

choose their positions on the page,

as if set there

by some divine hand

some muse with the voice

of an angel 

whose voice 

becomes your voice,

her song, your song.

—

Not knowing how or why

A morning of starts and stops

of false beginnings

of missteps

trying to find my footing

on a path I can’t see

working through silence

hoping to hear a voice 

deleting more words

crossing out full sentences

beginning again

stopping

starting over

all futile efforts to find

a path leading

somewhere—

but where?

trusting the process

that I’ll find what

I need if I keep writing 

keep my pen moving

across the page

keep collecting words

not yet knowing which I’ll save

and which I’ll discard

waiting for the light to go on

for a path to appear

not knowing how or why

but persisting

through doubts, uncertainty

through not knowing

until the end suddenly appears

and there’s the light at the end of the tunnel—

shimmering, growing brighter—

the beacon I was searching for

there all along

waiting for me to find it

A writer’s prayer of gratitude

Thanks to the Divine Source of words where all words begin their journey into the world.

Thanks for the desire to write and for the imagination that reveals what I can’t see with my eyes alone.

Thanks for the curiosity to explore the world and the courage to embark on a journey into the unknown each time I pick up a pen.

Thanks for the strength to keep going even when I feel lost, and for the support of friends and family when things appear hopeless.

Thanks for words that find their way onto the page, and for the pen in my hand and the ink that fixes the words to paper.

Thanks for the paper and for the pages that I’ve filled with words over the years, never knowing what will come next or if anything will come at all.

Thanks for the new understanding that comes with each word, and for the thrill of discovering something I didn’t known before I began writing.

Thanks for the patience to sit with silence and for the determination to keep going.

Thanks for the hope that words can help us heal and bring us closer together.

Thanks for the pure joy of feeling my hand moving across the page and the sight of words that didn’t exist a moment ago.

Thanks for the proof that I am here each day, ink flowing from my pen, gratitude flowing from my heart.

Thanks for each word that brings me closer to the Divine Source of words where all words begin their journey into the world.

Before you put pen to paper

Before you put pen to paper

you listen for a voice,

for words, 

for something--

a sound, an image, anything--

but hear nothing 

except silence,

see nothing 

except an empty page.

It's only once you touch 

the page with your pen 

and begin moving your hand 

that you can hear something, 

see a shadow cross the page, 

and hurry to catch it

the way you might try 

to catch a rabbit 

or a butterfly.

It's as if nothing can happen

until the pen parts 

the sea of silence 

and reveals a path 

that you can follow 

(even if you still can't see it, 

can only feel your way), 

knowing the ground 

beneath your feet

is solid and you're not 

walking on clouds 

or thin air.

Maybe you can see a bridge 

high above a river, 

and you can see the light 

reflecting in starbursts 

off the surface of the water below 

as you cross the bridge 

drawn by the sound of music in the distance, 

notes you've never heard before 

that keep drawing you closer to its source, 

hidden in the woods, 

waiting for you to arrive.

Listen closely

You need to listen closely

to what’s in your heart

even if you can’t always

understand the language

it’s speaking.

You can feel it beating

in your chest, just beneath

your ribcage, pulsing

with life, with words

that flow onto the page

like an endless running

stream, 

like ice melting off the mountain

filling the page with

what you need to hear

just the softest of sounds, 

nearly inaudible on some mornings,

sounds you can’t always decipher, 

on some days just silence

flowing through your pen

leaving no marks on the page,

while on other days 

a rush of words,

a wave, a tsunami of words

that nearly carries

your pen away,

that’s almost impossible

to contain on the page,

words spilling

overflowing

washing over you

leaving you soaked to the skin 

your pen exhausted in your hand, 

your heart content, 

grateful for each word.

—

Letting go

I remember sitting at my desk years ago, alone in my college dorm room, staring at the typewriter’s unmoving keys beneath my fingers and the blank paper in front of me.

I kept wondering where the words were hiding.

I didn’t understand yet—it took years to understand— how writing works. 

How the words won’t come until I begin typing or writing, moving my hand across the page, pressing my fingers on the keypads.

Words are shy. 

They need to be coaxed out of hiding. 

They need to be teased gently into the light. 

They’ll refuse to reveal themselves until you begin moving your hand. 

Once you make that commitment and draw the first letter of the first word, writing becomes like breathing.

You take a breath, then another breath, and the next letter, the next word, will follow.

Let go of expectations.

Let go of what you think you should write.

Let the words come in whatever way they want to come. 

Remember you can always revise the words after they’ve made their way onto the page. 

Start by moving your hand. 

Allow yourself to believe in the mystery, the not knowing where the words might take you. 

Trust the words to know the path they need to take, and follow the words to wherever the path leads you.

Let yourself be surprised. 

Stand aside. (Hint: Get out of the way.)

And open yourself to whatever gifts your pen brings you.