Why I Write.

Nothing compels me to write more than disconnect, that feeling of being alone in a full and busy world, of being composed of things unearthly and beyond reality.  That deep part of my soul like the bottom of the ocean where creatures we haven't yet discovered make their homes is cold and untouched by the sun.  I don't know what hides there, but I long to.  I drop anchor in these dark places every time I sit down to write; I imagine the strings of black letters are like a fishing line at the end of which is an enticing bait that will draw these creatures forward and pull them into the light where they can be studied, and known, and released.

I felt a compulsion to discover my oceanic beasts yesterday as I drove east on a nearly empty stretch of highway.  The broken white lines were lulling me into a thoughtful silence that sparred with the dull anxiety I always feel when I drive east, a result of playing chicken with Helios as he drags the sun across the sky and I'm fighting against the solar current.  I thought about how close we can be to someone while simultaneously being so far away, how half a mile of physical distance can be extended through walls of brick and glass that divide us, walls of apathy and ignorance that pull us even further apart.  

I thought about a single heartbeat in a building, this spark of energy that pulsated unseen into the air and was carried by the breeze and into my open car window, delicately caressing my cheek.  I could smell on it the same smell I find on myself, the tarry stink of destiny that firmly holds us in one place.  Our heads and our hearts don't always know it's there, and we get these amazing and lofty ideas of where we'll run to next, but every time we lift our heels, that black viscous tar of fate holds us firm.  And the heart beats on, unaware of my existence as I drive solemnly by, hidden by walls both visible and invisible.

In a city full of people, I saw buildings and cars.  I saw no one.

When I woke up this morning, I stood barefoot in soft moss wet with dew and watched the sun sparkle off the delicate pink blooms of a bleeding heart.  A mother robin nervously approached her nest to feed her naked, hungry brood.  I filled my lungs with the fresh air of a cool breeze and waved warmly to the first golfers of the morning as they made their way to the smooth green behind my parents' house.  I connected.

I am Gemini and Cancer, that zero degree mark between the signs that dives out of the air and into the water.  Born on the last day of spring, I am a daughter of the free sky, sister of the warm breeze and cousin to all those with wings who have tamed the fickle wind; I am a child of the sea, born looking through the rippling waves at the cool dark places the sun can't warm.  I am gaseous and gossamer; I am liquid and flowing.  This morning, I am everything.

I am starting this blog with high aspirations, that every day I can write of the things about which I am most passionate.  I am determined to hold back my wild horses, to no longer want to run against my destiny but stand here in my tar and learn to enjoy the view with patience and love.  Because it is full of beauty.  It is full of life.  It is full of awe.