There’s a poem by one of my favorite poets, Rumi, that says
“come, come, whoever you are.
Wonderer, worshipper, lover of learning.
It doesn’t matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vow
a thousand times
Come, yet again, come, come.”
I’ve always loved those lines because they speak so well to my experience. It seems I’m always breaking my vows, vows to myself, to the universe and starting over again, constantly reinventing, constantly trying to do things differently, to do things just a little bit better than before.
The blog sphere has been baffling me a little, so I’ve pulled back. I haven’t been writing into the ether, onto the screen, that electronic portal to the world. But I think I’m ready to come back.
Writing real is a world I have to wander in all the time to get things right, to reach that place where I feel okay laying parts of my life open. To get that balance between real and exposed.
Twice in my life I have been severely bitten by depression. The first time was after my mother died in 2003. While her death was the catalyst, other things were going on as well, a dissolving marriage, financial problems. I had always been moody, but I didn’t realize, until then, how debilitating depression could be. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t cope. Could barely make myself put one foot in front of the other. I finally snapped out of it by leaving everything familiar and going to China. Change was my drug.
This second time has been recently, and it’s affected my writing more than anything. In the evenings, I sit and stare at the empty page. I try to find some place where the words don’t feel like they’re being carved out with a pick ax and I can’t.
The hardest part is coming back, over and over, and asking myself, do I really have something to say? Will the words always be there or will I eventually use them all up?