Being writing

Yesterday amidst preoccupation, I remembered, and felt a moment of sublime happiness that I had decided to drop NaNoWriMo.

In this morning's pages, I prompted myself to describe something that happened last night: nothing particularly memorable, just a pleasant time spent with friends. After dashing off a few sentences, I recoiled from the effort of writing narrative. What is this aversion to structure? I wanted to write about feelings. Why does this child keep screaming for attention?

The child is not real. At least, it isn't other: it is me.

"No more metaphors," I decided. "I'll just write what is there."

Immediately, I had an impression of a blank screen graduated from shadow at the bottom to light at the top. It was notably similar to what I could actually see with my eyes: my oak desk with notebook and pen, window light illuminating it from above. When I closed my eyes, the screen went darker, too. I had another set of eyes perceiving an inner reality, reflecting the outer one but distinct from it. I can project anything I want on the screen of the imagination, but this morning I need to simply admire its blankness, simplicity, serenity.

Sometimes things (like the screen, whatever it is) become clearer as soon as I stop trying to explain them.

I've observed other writer friends and acquaintances grow weary of the necessity to write. I wonder if it's happening to me. Not that I want to stop writing altogether, just stop stressing over purpose and ambition. I want to simply be. Be a writer, if I must, but just be it, not worry so much about what to make of it. To do it for myself and not care about entertaining anyone. To let whatever arises do so naturally, without struggle. To let creativity be my meditation. I have established the structure of familiar habits, and want to hang on them for a while, like forgotten laundry or dead leaves.

Upon finishing those pages, I wanted to visit the Eramosa River, so that is what I did, taking my camera. I haven't gone there in weeks. A source of joy and peace, neglected.

Stopping to look closely at the lichen on Old Man Willow, I discovered these minuscule mushrooms emerging from the bark, each head no more than 2 mm in diameter.

The frost-burned leaves on riverside asters hung sharply to the east, as if wind had frozen them there. The flowers have died and storm has flown away, but ghosts still bend in a phantom gale.

The plants portrayed below are nettles.