Sunday Trees

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Tree watching on a quiet Sunday morning…

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Witness

The witness to my creative process is also the reason for my block. One moment I might be writing, thinking over the words and the next I am engaged in an imaginary conversation with my reader. I explain this and that, things I might have wanted to elaborate upon but left out for the sake of brevity. Sometimes, in my writing I tend to ramble on; I love to digress really, for that is how the mind works but I cannot let the structure of the written piece be influenced by my whims.

There are times when the future reader is pushed back by the ghosts of my encounters with people talking of their own memories and experiences that have shaped them. It is especially true when it is a memoir I am writing and I am recreating events and places from snatches of conversations I have had with people.

The contributor to my stories turns into the reader in my mind. I remember his raw emotions as he talked, that kept bubbling up and how he tried to put them down, hiding behind a veneer of sanity and maturity. I can think of the way it would move him when he stumbles on my piece and reads and remembers that he told me all that. I hope then that I have done justice to him.

When I write or capture a scene, I know I am almost looking over my shoulder for a critical look from the masters looking at me trying to attempt what I am learning to be good at. I think and try to imagine the helpful suggestions and the critical explanations.

Sometimes, in the middle of a conversation with someone I have just met and getting to know through tentative questions, my mind thinks in a parallel mode of what I could really tell her about following dreams and aspirations. She, then is the witness to the hacks and the advice pieces I have.

My creative block also comes from the ways my witnesses expresses themselves. I compare myself to them and feel daunted by the ease of their expression. If I could express myself in a vacuum, being just at home with the muse and letting it flow, I might be prolific but I would miss a crucial link in the chain of my expression.

Gratitude

Today, I feel grateful for the present of the present moment.
It is somehow very difficult to stay in the now, discarding the mirage of the past and the uncertainty of the future. Yet, the now means nothing more than ‘being’ as opposed to ‘doing’.

I feel grateful that I could put away my worries about ‘what might be’ and the regrets of ‘what might have been’ and focus on what I have now.

I am grateful that I could feel the breeze and see the beauty in the bare branches of the trees.
I am grateful that I could see the deep colours of the blooms.
I am grateful that the sun set the sky aflame in the evening.
I am grateful that it rained and everything felt new.
I am grateful that I could hear the pitter patter of the rain drops on my roof.
I am grateful for the tiny buds on the plants that herald spring.

I am grateful for today.

What are you grateful for, today?

Guilt

The guilt that haunted me is still there.
For years, it would not let me sleep
I would dream of them in all situations and places
I would see the sneers or the undeserved generosity
I could feel the missed opportunities
To a better worldview, giving back, being supportive, showing grace or caring enough
Giving, even while receiving with both hands

The years of torment are gone now, only to fester as a wound.

Creating the Space to Write

Most days are just a jumble of everything. Walking the tightrope, balancing again and yet again. Managing this, that and the other thing. And getting to writing last of all; sometimes the last thing in the day even though it is the first thing on my mind.

Yet, the way all days are different even though they have an underlying thread of madness; all writing is different. Sometimes, I write in absolute silence, thinking of ideas, churning words in my mind, being with it completely and letting it all flow naturally. Everything comes together perfectly and I don’t want to change even an alphabet. At other times, I know what I want to write. I can sit in absolute clash and clang, people shouting or music blaring and write a brilliant piece. Unless my clothes at tugged at and I have food/art projects/broken toys pushed under my nose, I do just great.

I am a pen and paper person completely and I am proud of my writing instruments and the different kinds of paper I have managed to stock up. Yet, I know that it takes a lot of time to type what I’ve put on paper. Not just time wise but the trouble of reading my own scrawl. So, increasingly I turn to the keyboard for writing. However, to beat the block or write something momentous and from the soul, I still use a pen.

I don’t need a corner really, nor a desk. I don’t need a beverage or a sugary snack. The sofa would do, or the bed, or the chair with the bamboo jutting out. Once I start, I don’t know where I am sitting or what the time is. I don’t see the hues of the plants around me, or the dried out fallen leaves. I don’t see the sway of the trees even though these things ordinarily move me.

Writing is not an activity or a hobby or a profession. It is a pouring out in words what I am deep within. It is my emotions and impressions, my perceptions and experiences, my hopes and aspirations.

Where do you write? What do you need to create the perfect writing space and mood?