there is enough self-awareness in me to know that when i don't write for extended periods of time that the reason i am not writing is a lack of desire to face whatever it is that i am afraid will come out in my words. what cowardice...to be afraid of that which i carry with me wherever i go anyway.
there are times when i feel like i am more playing the role of a grown up than actually being one. as though, one day, someone will realize that the real person inside this 41-year old graphic designer, is the awkward twelve-year old who never felt like she fit in anywhere, who would rather use crayons and paint than a G5 and Wacom tablet.
so, as usual, in times such as these, i have to turn to my good friend, Rilke, to see if he has any wisdom that will help me make sense of my life...and as usual, he has not let me down. i've quoted this one before, and, well, who am i kidding, i will quote this again. it's from his book, The Book of Hours: Love Poems to God, and on nights like these, it helps me sleep.
She who reconciles the ill-matched threads
of her life, and weaves them gratefully
into a single cloth—
it's she who drives the loudmouths from the hall
and clears it for a different celebration
where the one guest is you.
In the softness of evening
it's you she receives.
You are the partner of her loneliness,
the unspeaking center of her monologues.
With each disclosure you encompass more
and she stretches beyond what limits her,
to hold you.
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