Happy Earth Day, Dear Friend

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Somewhere along the blinking lines of Highway 24 and the ash colored piles of sand and sediment I decided I needed to write again. For some time the writer in me has been waiting like silt in my mind--at the bottom of mental fluidity, shapeless and still--until this weekend's passage into the quiet desert when I heard it ask to be sculpted by words.

So this is a start.

Writing is a terrifying venture. And a jealous time-suck.

Sometimes I wonder why I ever took this lover. I can't divorce it or leave it or let it shrivel up--dry and waste away like the elements in the dirt. Every time I threaten to quit writing all together it forces its way back into the door--slamming against the walls of my brain, reminding me I will never know peace without writing. It's writing that puts my feet on the ground and asks me to stay here, noticing, swallowing, questioning the present.

I need it. My children need it. My husband needs it. My mother needs it. My God needs it.

Earth reminds me of my demanding desire to commune with heaven. And when I am out in the green or down into the water or blinking at the sky I know writing is my channel to deity--without it I am lost. Every minute I am breathing in and noticing patterns and places untouched, I feel my confidence return.

Passing through the pink rock sculpted by wind and time I thought to myself over and over again:

I can do this.


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