Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Writing the Way Home

All my life, I've been a writer. I'm not sure what that means exactly, except that I've always written. It seemed a natural course of action to begin chronicling my widowhood only 6 days after Rick killed himself. I took to paper (well, more accurately, I took to screen), because paper always listens without judgment. It's also like a mirror. It shows you what you put there, but in a special light.

Whether poetry or prose, I feel better while I'm writing...and then even better after. I find pieces of myself wedged deep inside of the reservoir of my pieces of broken glass I can put back together, to make a new work of art. I can dip my pen in the well of emotion that waits within...and something happens. Seriously - magic happens.

Writing has gotten me through some seriously bad times, but it's also helped me reflect (I'm a master of self-reflection), allowed me to express joy, and given me an outlet.

There is so much power. I pour it all out of me, but then I get to drink it all back up.

When I think of "home," I think of writing. As long as I can write, I know I'll have a home. 

I wrote this poem a few years ago, but I can't get over how true it rings for me today. Almost precognitive, as though I knew I'd read it now.


I jump, jump, jump
From one year to another
A hopscotch game
The numbers getting higher

My feet slap the ground
As I make my way
Patent leather buckled shoes
With lacey socks
Keeping a quick and shaky rhythm


The thud of adulthood
Echoes through my legs
And my high heels
Make the game less quick
But still shaky

My arms keep my balance
As if they are steadying
The air that surrounds me
My eyes seek a safe spot
To land

I lose my footing for a moment
And falter
And in an instant
I am out of the grid
The hopscotch game has ended
I’ve lost

But then I realize
As I see my two feet on the ground
That I can live outside the lines
And exist without jumping

I let my legs adjust
To the security
Of standing on my own two feet
And finally
I can stop only looking down
In order to move in that endless game

Now I can look up…up…up

I do

I see the sun
And know I’ve won

(c) ALB

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