I’m watching the blossom fiercely wrenched from the trees by spring winds. A metaphor? I too, am suspended in the whim of the universe, a dance so random that I can’t always keep up. I’m still writing. I’m trying to encapsulate the process of self-empowerment, an adolescent anorexic turning the tide. It ebbs and flows a staccato experience.
Writing has given me the courage to shine light into my deepest recesses. Words fail. How do I convey my truth and share something that drove me to deny myself over and over? Like the blossom, I’m stripped bare by spring winds of my pen.
Retiring is like dying. If you are very lucky, you have a few practice runs before you go. I’m transitioning out of my professional life. With every, good-bye, I reflect on what have I have learned.
I’m a seeker, a would-be philosopher. It’s a vagabond’s life, the gypsy of the soul seeking meaning. But there are always stand-out moments, a person, a situation, a life. Most importantly there is a lesson.
Dreams, what are they? Are they part of our subconscious mind or fantasy? Do they serve a purpose? Or not?
I dream vividly and frequently. As a child, I terrified myself with recurring dreams of separation or failure. Some nights, I ran from one reality to another and another again. I’d wake exhausted happy the night had passed, hung over from fatigue.
Writing Schicksal, I had to portray my maternal grandfather. I had grown up with one perspective: my mother’s. What if she had it wrong?
Memoir, from the memory, should be based on truth. It is what we believe or remember to be the case. My grandfather, long gone, could not be asked about his motives. He made a hard call which cost him his daughter’s love.
When I booked my place at the Clunes Booktown Festival, a pocket full of dreams came with me. Crossing uncharted waters, I ventured into the unknown hoping to sell the left over hard copies of Schicksal, my first novel.
I felt a sense of foreboding mixed with excitement. This strange mix of emotions often dawns when a breakthrough is in the wind. The déjà vu unsettled me but I try to stay calm, philosophical and above all open.
Christmas challenges many, for all kinds of reasons. December arrived and with it our ICU welcomed suicide attempts, ODs and road trauma. It began with the tinsel, early December. Already the stores heralded Christmas consumerism.
Among the decorations, fake snow and up beat carols, shoppers milled and mulled looking for the perfect gift. Some faces shone with the sheer pleasure of it while others fondled the array of offerings in a distracted way. Obligation.
As writers we use words, to create images, feelings, and experiences in the consciousness of our readers. It is largely a silent pursuit. We don’t really talk our books although we may read sections at times.
Gathering information, observing and finding inspiration too arise in solitude; the writer, tea and the computer. This is the third part of a series of posts, titled, “Lorna’s Wisdom.” Luckily Lorna walked down the road into my life again just a few days ago.