leaves 3

It is an odd thing to be a writer of stuff every day that people read. Odd, because such a surprising number of you pay attention.

At times, I think you pay more attention to me than I pay to me. Mostly, my poetry and thoughts are more of a purging of thoughts and feelings than anything historical. I got the idea from reading Julia Cameron’s book, The Artist’s Way maybe 15 years ago. In it, she teaches the concept of morning pages, sort of a dairy, to start off the day, to bleed off the demons or negativity or just stuff that builds up in the night.

Long an indifferent journaler, I decided to apply something I often feel I have little of – discipline – to my daily routine and began writing at a regular time each morning before I get to my day. It’s turned out to not just help my creativity, but to help me through the daily battle I have with depression. In time, “morning pages” became a routine of meditation, journal writing and blog writing – the stuff you read here each morning.

Some of it is hopeful (because at my core I am an optimist) and some of it’s dark (because at times, I am dark.). Some of it, over the past couple of years, has been unabashed love poems (because I have found a healthy and wonderful love late in life.).  Most of it though, just stuff I have to get out, stuff that has piled up in the night, like a frozen pipe, that has to be warmed up and let loose so my day can flow freely.

That’s a good thing for you, but less than a good thing, evidently, for some of you who read. If I have a week or few of darkish poems, my email and messages get filled with well-wishers who want to make sure I am OK.  And this past week must have been a particularly dark one because you’ve been reaching out more than normal.

I am OK.

Yes, I’ve been in dark phase a bit, my depression a bit more virulent than it has been for a while, but I’ve been through the worst of this a decade ago. I know what to do and I do it. I get the help, tweak my meds a touch, bear down on all the cognitive power of positive thinking stuff I can, eat better and all that other stuff. I throw the psychological and proverbial kitchen sink at it,  It’s kind of like mental demolition, only the demolition is my depression, not life in general.

It’s my normal. I’m not even freaked out by it. It’s no more than getting a cut and putting a band-aid on it, with Bacteem and Neosporin and the works. Overkill. Because, well, overkill works.

I don’t even need to know which one works, which tool did the trick. I just throw everything at it and push on. And my writing is part of that. I’m really kinda sorry that you who noticed, worried.  And also flattered.

Because I don’t know most of you. You know me as burble along each day, five or six days a week, revealing little slivers and snippets of who I am that you put together like some random jigsaw puzzle. You learn bits and pieces. Some of you like me and some of you are indifferent (that’s OK) and a couple of you don’t like me at all. (Less OK, but it happens.). You know me far more than I know you.

But the ones of you who write me? I know something about you. You’re compassionate. And kind. And care about people.

My kind of people. I am sure I’d like you in real life.

So thanks for asking. I am OK. I am starting to trend back upward. At some point that will show up in my poetry and thoughts. That’s the way it works. Till then, thanks for caring. And mostly, thanks for just letting me rant here on these bloggy pages, and let it go so I can get on with my days, a relatively sane and useful human being, no matter what my poetry may say.

Be well. Travel wisely,


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