I have run into this problem before.
Hard to write when I am in love, which I am. Though this is different than before.
But the writing problem is the same. All I want to think about, and write about, is love. And it feels both too all-consuming and too private to share… I am writing, anyway, by the way, even when not posting…
Meanwhile, work is happening. Meanwhile, mothering and the life of my home and my body and the slow turning of the creek toward spring is all happening. The flowering red currants have bared their pink tongues, like a many-handed Indian goddess, extending all her nectar for the Anna’s hummingbirds. I saw one at the top of a still bare thorny tree this morning. She was fatly fluffed and still, silhouetted on the branch in the grey midday March light.
Not long now until the trees bloom, until the Alders and Maples cover themselves with their pendant pale green blossoms and the whole insect word goes batshit crazy for sugar.
It feels like I am sugar high, four days out of six, and then not at all for four. I am constantly rising or falling on the wild magic of love, and yet… that is not the whole of me. I am remembering to remember my core. Maybe it is because we do things together that I would do to feed and balance myself if I were alone: walk in the woods, drink coffee slowly, even write, that one time…
Maybe it is because I am following my friend Dawn’s advice: to be my own lover also: to love myself for the ways that I have stood by me, over and over, for so many years. To love myself for my own faithful abiding.
Maybe it is because I have finally done a better job of choosing someone to be in love with.
These could all be true. All.
Meanwhile, I am returning to the soul work of storytelling as activism, as a way to bring the intelligence of the whole to the needs of the world, now. I am planning a retreat to elicit imagination and connection, to bring science and story together in a marriage filled by love that withstands paradox.
Which I am also living. And yet, I am having such a hard time writing…
What sense does it make, when the world is so in need of love, to be silenced by it? What sense does it make, when all I care for now is wholeness, to partition?
None, and yet there is this: When I feel that love rise up in me, sudden and green, it is a wild place, fae and silent and teeming. It is a meadow with a shelf of mist. It longs to thrive within some bubble, protected from the vagaries of human culture.
Even as it longs to sing without ceasing.
I am sure there is some middle ground here.