Right now. Where is the poem right now.
A little drawstring pouch full of tiny wooden hearts.
The other day I was on FaceTime with my dear friends, Linda and Gary.
I call them my godparents. Linda has advanced memory loss and struggles to follow conversations now, so it was mostly Gary and I chatting. I was missing her voice.
At one point, I turned to her and asked, “Linda, how are you doing?”
Now — many of you will know this already, but this is not a good question to ask someone with advanced memory loss. I watched her forehead darken and her eyes start to move around the room, searching for an anchor.
“I’m not really sure,” she started, halting. “I’m not sure how to…” Her voice trailed off.
“No, I mean right now. How are you doing right now?”
That did it. Her face opened up like a book. I could see our whole friendship in there.
“Right now I’m wonderful! I’m talking to you!”
What else could matter more than that?
This is one of the hardest things to explain about writing — it’s so much more than putting words on a page.
Writing is a way of paying attention, of connecting to what matters, of being in love with all we’re in love with. It’s a way of orienting to everyday life as if it’s explainable, and drawing ourselves right up to the edge of what can’t be explained to cup our ear and listen.
Like everyone, I’ve gone long stretches without writing. When that happens, it’s not just the words I miss, it’s the tenderness of it. When I’m writing, I’m more heartbroken, more fulfilled, more connected to everyone I meet.
I think this has something to do with the present moment. Writing holds us there. Gently. It slows our thoughts so that they can find our hands. It asks us, over and over, “How are you doing, right now?” and it lets us take our time to answer.
I haven’t been writing much lately.
I’ve been a bit stunned by all the messages of hate and division in the world. In these big moments, it’s so easy to hide out.
But I think these moments call to our voices more than ever. They call on us to fill the air with something else. They ask — where is the poem in this moment? They wait until we hear it, even when it takes a while.
Talking to Gary later that day, he said that living with Linda is like living inside of a poem. I feel that. I want that for us all.
If you’re looking for some support and company with writing this winter, there are three resources below. I’ll be back later this month with our spring writing workshop offerings. If you want to get them first, hop on our early bird list.
Write | Read | Rest
This idea of this program is simply to make space. To step back. To do it with others. It’s sliding scale, and extremely simple, and it runs for the next two weeks.
Morning Coffee Sessions
Come write with us every weekday morning at 9am Eastern Time. This is a large group program where we gather for a prompt, a poem, and 20 minutes of writing. Sliding scale on a monthly subscription.
BIPOC Writing Space
This is a large format program for and by BIPOC writers. It’s an ongoing, twice a month gathering led by Asifa, Kim, and Mari. Sliding scale.
A poem for you.
This is a special one to me because Gary introduced me to it. I cannot read it without choking up. I’m sharing it with love for all our fallen beloveds.
You know… Linda was right to be thrown by my question.
How is anyone doing? It’s an impossible question.
But right now, reading this, on this tiny island of the present that we are sharing — How are you? Can you cup your ear to hear it? Maybe find one or two words to explain it? Can you feel it as a poem, even just for a sec?
In it with you,
