Marc has encouraged me to write from just about the very beginning of my work with him. He once told me "You're a writer who's not writing" and it's one of the reasons I'm stuck. My daily writing has become a barometer for my life. If I get myself to the keyboard, it means I'm engaging in my life. It doesn't matter the quality of the writing. It matters that I start the day walking 22 steps from my bed to my desk and just get on with it. It means I'm going to live this day and not let it slip away like so many many days before it. So how it is possible I ask myself that for days or weeks sometimes, I get lost in 22 steps and go in a different direction. Back to life on automatic pilot. Sitting here now and writing this, it feels just right, all's well with the world. Why would I not want to start everyday with that feeling? Very often when I come here to write, my eyes immediate fill with tears and I'm always delighted by that because I know I've touched a pure undefended part of my heart. These words, these little black squiggles on a white paper, are chiseling away the concrete around my heart, my feelings. There are huge breaks in the wall, but still a ways to go.
I once had a dream that I was in a room lined with giant wall sized pads of paper. There was a barrel with giant brushes and pens. For my homework, Marc told me to go back to there and the following is what came about when I walked 22 steps from my bed into that room.
So, in my dream I'm in a big room and it's full of writing pads. The walls are covered with giant lined sheets of paper. I can write big words on big pads. I can have big thoughts. I do have big thoughts and ideas, but I don't get them down on my paper, and so I'm not putting them into my life either. So here I go into my writing room. It's a big room, my room, but I'm letting the world in to see me. I'm not hiding here. I'll take a huge brush and assault the paper with big words. In giant red letters I'm writing "Hey look at me! Here I am. " Around the top of the room I'll leave notes to myself, "I'm a writer who's not writing" "Be the Cheetah" " Be Vulnerable" "Are you with me or agin me?" If I stop writing, I'll look around the room and see those reminders. How about "Thinking about writing is like thinking about exercising. " I'm doing plenty of the thinking, but my paper is still blank and my thighs are still wobbly. Oh wait, no that was the old me. I don't do that here in my writing room. I'll take my giant brush and I'll write "OPEN UP" I'll write the word FEAR, and then I'll cross it out, I'll write over it, LIFE, FEELINGS, LOVE. I'm not afraid in my writing room. Anything can happen to me in here. Whatever does happen, I'll be here and I'll feel it and I won't run away from it. I'm not hiding. I'm exposed. What does exposed feel like? I'm small. I'm a little skinny girl and crying. So I'll start her out with a pen and a small notebook. Why is that little girl crying? Why does she feel like she's alone? Why is she there by herself? There are other kids in the room. They're all together and they're around her so she's not really alone. The other kids think she's part of the group, but she thinks she isn't. Is she with them? But she feels so alone. There's a mother and a father in the room. Should the little girl go to them? When they're across the room she can see they love her, but when she tries to get close to them she never quite gets there. What's in her way? She should write in her book. "Hey give me a hug, tell me I'm OK just as I am. " The MAN is also in the room. THE HEAD MAN, The MAN in CAPITAL LETTERS but he's in her future. She doesn't see him yet. But he's there, always was, always will be. I wish she could see him. She should write in her book. "Now I know who you are." The trouble is that she wonders what all these other people think about her, because she can't see herself. She's not there unless she sees herself reflected by them. Is she pretty? Is she smart? Is she likable, lovable? If she could just open your notebook and write in it. Let the MAN in and then you'll know who you are and it won't matter what they think. It won't matter. It doesn't matter.
Now she's older. She's walking past a wall with pictures from her life, and she sees she's getting older, but she doesn't feel any bigger. Her life isn't bigger yet, just longer. She's looking for some sign of what the little girl wanted from her life, but she can't see anything. Wasn't she supposed to dream about getting married and having kids? Shouldn't there have been a dream about writing or painting or being a movie star? She's looking at the pictures and she's seeing fear and hiding, and keeping safe, lifeless but safe. Oh but here near the end it's changing. Here's a picture of her with the MAN, and she's getting bigger and stronger, and now they're back to the walls with the giant writing pads, and he hands her a giant pen. She's crying and a little afraid, but she starts writing and starts living.