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Short Answer: More Savouring, Less Griping.

Longer Answer: A few years ago, I took up the habit of writing a poem every morning.  I didn’t revise them, or publish them, or show them to family or friends. I just wrote them.

This non-fiddling, anti-perfecting wasn’t at all like me.  It felt like trying on being  a different person. A cooler person.  A person I’d want to be friends with if I wasn’t already walking around inside their skin.

A person who complained less, rushed less, did less  micromanaging or grandiose planning.

A person who laughed more, created more, had more ideas percolating and  more Technicolor dreams at night.

Here’s the thing, though.  I got busy.  Life kept filling itself up, an overnight bag trying to pack for a month: earplugs, Pop tarts, an accordion?  Might need those.  A curling iron, ice skates, another Master’s degree? Why not?  Toss in those seventeen unread novels, the baby’s crib, and the shiny espresso machine.  You never know when they’ll come in handy.

There wasn’t a day I decided to stop. Once,  I just looked up and wasn’t a woman who wrote a poem every day any more.  This is my letter to that woman, asking her to come by for a visit.  To stay a while.

4 responses »

  1. It’s so easy and yet so hard,,,,life,,,,,,

    Reply
  2. When life intrudes, as it will, just pick your pen back up when you get the chance and don’t guilt. After all, life is what we write about.
    Thanks for dropping by and commenting on my blog. Debi

    Reply
  3. Life can take you far away from that creative side if you let it, but it seems you’ve conquered its hold for now. Congratulations on a very interesting blog.

    Reply

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