This morning I wrote with “my women” – the same women who have been
working through body oriented writing prompts for at least two years now.
I was slow getting started so I muted my phone and puttered and
sputtered before sitting down, somewhat discombobulated, to write.
I sat down with my notebook right as Jan was underway with speaking
the writing prompt into her telephone in
“Hope arising? Dusty dreams?” I wrote.
I squirmed in my seat and wrote some more.
“There is hope. Plentiful, always. I have felt it in my chest, my
heart beat sounds, urging blood through my body. My hope is warmed sometimes
under or atop a heat lamp, wrapped loosely enough to move the gold dust through
it.
“My dreams, lately, are undustified.” That isn’t a typo – it is
unDUSTified. Definition would be something like not dusty, worked with,
polished off and left, dust free.”
“I didn’t hear it right, the prompt I mean, so it would be easy to
unconsciously flail. I choose other-than-fail.”
At this point,
I was feeling lost with my words, so I grabbed onto the concept of dusting,
clearing, cleaning and started, again.
Decluttering – been doing it lots lately – creating my home and my
body and my sanctuary. I am able to throw out the dream table cloth now and sit
down.
Sit. Down. Here. Now.
I don’t want to
read this aloud to my fellow writers. It is making no sense.
I take another breath.
Hope fills my chest.
Pitter pat, into my chest. My knees unlock. My pencil moves,
knowing the words always always always find me.
