Free writing. What a concept. Writing for the joy and the freedom of writing.
Silencing my inner critic. This nasty judge.
The judge with the rolled eyes and furrowed eyebrows who looks at me out the corner of one eye.
The "are you stupid" look or the "what are you thinking" look.
The limiting beliefs rattling around in my head. My English teacher who told me writing was not for me. I am too verbose and too unyielding with words. My friend's words who said, "writing is not for everyone." The biggest thief of joy and courage...me.
So today I write. Just what is in the two inch picture frame of Anne Lamont's book "Bird by Bird." I have that frame. It sits on the edge of my desk....in the other room. As much as I love my new "old" desk, I find the window by my dining room table a joy.
It is dark, cloudy and news of snow. However, three fat and spunky squirrels and about 150 small birds are feasting on bird seed and left overs in my garden beds. It is a satisfying feeling. To feed animals.
Doing the outside chores was an activity I would get lost in. When our horses were here, I relished in going up to offer them another sliver of the good hay or a bit of grain. To tuck them in-knowing my girls-like me,preferred the freedom and protection found under the trees to the barn. After the boys were in bed, I would drive up to the horses "to just peak in." I watched them eat and told them my joys and my sorrows. Those huge eyes, the smell of their fur and the warmth of their bodies grounded me and brought me peace. Just like they always had.
A procedural memory. A stabilizer.
The tack shed at home was an old homestead house. The attic still carried junk from years gone by. The horses used for calving were kept in as Dad or one of us girls would ride through the pregnant girls during the night. The tack shed's smell of horse, leather, hay and its feeling of shelter and warmth was an oasis for me. One I ran to.
I would pull the old hay with the fork out of the manger and spread it under the horse's tired feet. Then, struggle through the snow to get new hay to fill it back up again. I would press it down, and fill it more. The horses gentle whimpers and neighing as I came in through the door each time gave me such a needed sense of being wanted and needed.
So simple to read. "I'm here," I would say and loosen the saddle or take it off to brush them down and give them a much needed break from the load they bore this time of year. Usually, I had a book stashed nearby and would climb in the manager to read and relish in the peace of this moment.
This. This is where I belong. Where my heart can stay.
When I ripped away from all I held dear and went to college and was lost and alone. I pulled these memories around me and found my place once more.
When my boys would go for the summer to SD to family or when they left for the m ilitary and for college...I went to the horses and climbed in the manager and sat where there nibbling lips bumped nearby. I cried to them and poured my longing and sorrow into their very capable care. Frosty especially, would put her nose in my lap. She shared my longing and sorrow.
This is my longing and my deepest desires. A manager, horses and me. A place. The desires I ran away from hoping to outdistance them from catching up to me. I now long for and dream of.
Why do we spend so much time trying to not be who we are and trying to be someone we are not?
To have the energy and determination to be. To be. That is the secret. To dig within until I can grow without. Why I am writing.
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