There are a few pieces that still keep me grounded over many years. Before I share more recent writing, I will pause to revise them and to make sure I stay true to myself.
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This quote was shared to a group of hikers in Tibet. The instructor had it passed down to him by a friend who came across it, hiking in the East Coast, I believe. It was carved into the side of a barn at the end of a hike. I was lucky enough to have heard of it myself.
Some people do not have to search, for they find their niche early in life and rest there seemingly contented and resigned. At times I envy them, but mostly I do not understand them... and seldom do they understand me. I am one of the searchers. There are, I believe, millions of us. We are not unhappy, but neither are we completely content. We continue to explore life, hoping to uncover its ultimate secret. We continue to explore ourselves, hoping to understand. We like to walk along the beach, we are drawn by the ocean, taken by its power and unceasing motion, its mystery, and unspeakable beauty. We like forests, mountains, deserts, hidden rivers and lovely cities as well. Our sadness is as much a part of our lives as our laughter. To show our sadness with the ones we love is perhaps as great a joy as we know, unless it is to share our laughter. We searchers are ambitious only for life itself and for anything beautiful it can provide. Most of all, we want love and to be loved, to live in a relationship that will not impede our wanderings and prevent our search. We do not want to prove ourselves to others and to compete for love. This passage is for wanderers, dreamers, and lovers who dare to ask of life everything which is good and beautiful.
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I learned of Jean Grae and this song my first year of college.
Still some of my favorite lines, lines I wish more young womyn heard:
startin over-- neva easy
but it takes some time to realize your own worth
come into your own
play of mental rebirth.
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One of the writings that inspired me to pick up my pen again is Gloria Anzaldúa's letter/essay to women of color: "Speaking in Tongues: A Letter to 3rd World Women Writers." Since then, I have noticed the moments I write-- in the broadest sense-- are not always what you expect. I write when breezing through the Town on my bike. I write between bus stops, thinking about the people I see and their stride, their demeanor, and their physical and figurative baggage. I write as I lay my head down for the night, and sometimes this means I jump up to scribble a few lines at my desk before going to bed. So here are the words that put writing in perspective, responding to Virgina Woolf's argument that women (read-- white, middle-class women) need a room of their own before they can create and write.
Forget the room of one's own-- write in the kitchen, lock yourself up in the bathroom. Write on the bus or the welfare line, on the job or during meals, between sleeping and waking. I write while sitting on the john. No long stretches at the typewriter unless you're wealthy or have a patron-- you may not even own a typewriter. While you wash the floor or the clothes listen to the words chanting in your body. When you're depressed, angry, hurt, when compassion and love possess you. When you cannot help but write.
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