|Astarra of the deer people|
The other night I watched the film about Hemmingway and Gelhorn. I loved the movie and their story but what has echoed in my mind for the last few days is Hemmingway saying "writing is easy, you just have to sit down at your typewriter and bleed". And there's the crux, the knowledge that to sit down and write, truly write, would be a gnawing open of a wound that once unleashed, could not be tethered again. "The moving finger writes; and, having writ, moves on: nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out a word of it." Gibran. There is a fear of what I could give voice to if I allowed myself. I used to skip shavasana in yoga, thinking I just didn't have time to lie down and do nothing. The real fear was that if this juggling working mother stopped for shavasana I just might never get back up again. The truth is the whole yoga workout is all about the shavasana, everything else is just the prelude, and all the rewards and payoffs are delivered in shavasana. It took me many years to learn this. And yet here I am trying to learn the same lesson again only in another domain. The thing at least about yoga is that it is only you and your breath. With writing, however, you are never alone, you bring many with you to the typewriter, many who may not want to be there.
Yesterday I managed to get an encaustic layer on to a few pieces and listed two original mixed media pieces in my Etsy
|The night has eyes|