Creative Burst Letdown

There is something in my soul that craves: attention, feedback, acknowledgement. Maybe it’s from all those years when I felt nothing but harsh criticism and ridicule. Maybe it was from all those times I felt not good enough. Maybe it’s because I pour my heart and soul onto the page so that it’s like a part of my soul bleeds.

The writing gives me a such joyous release! However, after the initial burst of excitement dies down, I am drained, empty; almost as if I continue to slowly hemorrhage. The flow of words, stopped for the time being, leaves me feeling hollow. An inflow is needed to replenish my soul. 

I think about these feelings and what they might mean. These bursts of creativity, of word flow, is so highly intense for such a short amount of time. It’s like running a 50-yard dash at top speed. The words stop. The running stops. And after the initial cheering of the crowd, after everyone walks away, I collapse in exhaustion … alone.

"End of the Lake" my biggest charcoal drawing
ready to go to a new home

Yes, the writing is a release for me, but a yearning within replaces the joy. I feel I’m missing something. (Do all writers and artists feel this way? There’s a letdown; almost like the letdowns after all the Christmas holiday hoopla.) I continue to crave recognition. 

Why do I feel I need to have others tell me I’ve done well? I know I’ve done a good job! I love what I’ve accomplished! Is it just an after-effect letdown and it’s normal? 

Is it about being witnessed? We all need to be witnessed in our lives. It’s an important aspect to help us gain perspective about ourselves and know that we’re doing OK. It’s knowing that we are not alone in our life struggles and celebrations. 

Is it the need to feel understood? This is a biggie. I think a lot of us feel we are not understood, and yet, in reality, most of us do have similar feelings, live through similar experiences.  A lot of people see my poems as sad. That makes me feel misunderstood. The poems are not sad to me! They bring me great joy because of the release. 

Maybe it’s just about need. And I need a little more positive feedback to help me replenish my soul, so when the next creative burst slams into me, I can offer it all I have. The incredible joy that fills me when I first get those words onto the page is indescribable. I want to share that and have others experience it, too. These are moments of self-realization and that helps me evolve into a better person and aids in my quest to live whole-heartedly.

Tidal Wave

This is what it’s like when a poem comes to me…

Tidal Wave

Something within opens wide 

and I am slammed

words and passion

pour into my soul

with tidal-wave force

I can’t catch my breath

I have to get it down

have to release the words

that are churning inside

that threaten to explode

But my hand  

can’t move fast enough

the pen skips

I struggle to get

the words on the page

My mind is drowning

I write quickly

to channel this flood

before the waters recede

before it abandons me

Suddenly it’s over

leaving me 

gasping for breath

on the drying shore

spent, but relieved

I relax in the sun

excited I’ve been given

another poem.

    ---Sasha Wolfe ‘16

There’s an immense in-pouring that needs to immediately be released. There’s a definite feeling of being a channel. The words pour in and through me.

A Major Project

Gardening is on hold for now with the heat and lack of water. It’s time to get back to being an artist. The lack of focus and organization in my artist’s life is causing my mind to spin ‘round and ‘round without anything getting resolved. I’ve never been good with set schedules since I quit working full time years ago. 

I’ve been working on this. I do have some routine to my life: journaling every morning, taking time to get some exercise be it on the air walker or gardening, and a couple other things. The gardening gets me out of this chair and outside. The other day I actually scheduled in a few tasks on my calendar – only a couple. I don’t want to go overboard and then not do it. I only set four jobs, two at two-hour intervals and two at one-hour.

Two of these jobs are huge tasks. One is to organize all the writing I’ve done and figure out categories and folders. Currently they are all over the place in various files on the computer, sometimes duplicated, and some are hard-copy prints. I need to have order to these writings to figure out what will go in the next book and to what type of book.

The second task will be even bigger – go through the past 10 years of photographs (since going digital) and delete everything but the few absolutely best pictures. This means thousands of photos and some will be harder to access because I’ve upgraded computers twice since starting. The photos are somewhere.

Today is day one for the first task and I’ve already not followed the schedule. I was busy doing some gardening project at the scheduled time, however, I did start tackling the task after lunch, and I actually worked over the two-hour limit. I managed to move all my writings from Dropbox main file and put them into folders: Book (I am getting ready to do a poetry one), Poems (which there are folders in folders), and Writings (which includes letters, stories, and miscellaneous writings). I also printed copies.

My goal is to get some kind of semblance as to what type of book my writings will fit into. The poetry book will be exciting, but I have to find all the poems I’ve written on this particular topic. Unfortunately, being a spontaneous writer, I write to the moment, to whatever subject is filling my mind. I’ll start a theme, but something will come along to pull my thoughts elsewhere. 

This writing is drivel compared to what I’ve been working with this afternoon. I’ve done some pretty fine pieces. They need to be shared.

This is a sample of what I do when the words are flowing well:

Drunk on Joy

My eyes drink in

a landscape serene

causing my heart

to explode with wonder

I cannot hold this joy

there are no words

to express the intensity

in my soul

How can I shake 

this passion

I cannot describe?

Who will feel 

this amazement

that fills all my crevices?

Drunk,

I stagger home

my heart leaking

tears of joy.

---- Sasha Wolfe

Mining the Inner Artifacts

This morning I’m continuing yesterday’s thread on self-archeology. Yesterday saw me digging up ancient carvings in my inner well; those old aspects and labels of myself that I buried for many years. Those issues occasionally rear an ugly head to stir my emotions and remind me of my insecurities. Is there any truth to them? 

I pulled a couple relics from the muck. As I line them up on the shelf, I consider what names they have; what labels I have/had. I start to clean off the dirt. Does this label fit me now? Did it ever really work for me or was it something that I got stuck with and is something that never felt true (I only felt it was true because that’s what others said or I believed). 

I thought about the physical downsizing I did these past couple of years and especially last year when I bought a much smaller house. Going through items I’ve had in my possession for a long time was not easy (yes, there’s still more to go through). Do I hang onto something just because I’ve had it for years? Do I keep it because it’s been in the family or it was given to me by someone special to me? How many things can I save if they are not usable for me now?

As I work with the relic analogy this morning, I am reminded how digging these old half-carved images out of my inner well is similar to the physical downsizing of my house. What image-label am I holding onto like a family heirloom because a family member gave me that label when I was young? What purpose is it serving if that label is not who I am? What about the relic-label that I buried because I was ashamed of it? What purpose does that serve? 

Think about all those relics I’ve been burying for years. They sink in the mud and are further hidden by more half-carved stones. Some rot, some fall apart, and some distort with age. Do they serve a purpose for me now or do they just clutter up my being and hinder my growth?

These recent years were creating who I am/want to be. But maybe I’m not creating something new or maybe I don’t need to create something new. What if all I need to do is to clean out the old relics and get rid of ones that do not suit me and are not me? What if, in digging these out and seeing actually what they are, I can let them go if they are not who I am? What if, in the cleaning out of all the junk and clutter, I am freed up to be truly me – the person I’ve always been on the inside, but couldn’t access because of all the crap I’ve buried?

I feel much freer living in a physical house that is less cluttered. Imagine how I could mentally feel if my inner me is less cluttered?

It’s time to get the cleaning rags out to see which relics are still good and which ones I can put to the curb.

Below is a poem I wrote many years ago. It goes to show, there was a part of me already working on this… but I stopped for awhile. Time to get out those cleaning tools again.

Cleaning Day in the Well

On the inside of my soul lies a darkened place

and stuck in an unused corner like burnt cheese

 is … something… possibly sinister…

I can’t tell for sure

It’s been covered over so many times 

that I’ve forgotten much of what I buried 

and I don’t know what has oozed 

into the hidden recesses of my being

 to rot and grow hard

But I have this handy dandy scraper now, 

a plastic little thing that won’t scar the sides 

(came with a George Foreman grill 

my ex gave me years ago and I no longer use)

So down there I go 

with my handy dandy scraper and cleaning rags 

I pick and scrub with care 

wipe away the grime and the dust and the char

to reveal… a mirror!

With gentle strokes, I wipe the surface clean then, 

with a silent bang

 light reflects in the shine and I am no longer in the dark

I am bathed in glorious sunlight and all is revealed

Yea-yah

--Sasha Wolfe

Consumed by the Fires of Creativity

This past week mornings are consumed by the fires of creativity and two poems erupted from the torrent of words rushing through me. It dawned on me that I can relate these creative outbursts to weather and natural phenomena.

Firestorm

A flash ignition quickly

burns through my mind

in an uncontrollable wildfire

of words and thoughts

I can’t write or type fast enough

my brain can’t catch it all

as the combustion of thought  

narrows in focus

to roar through me

with intense heat

The firestorm flares

fueled by its own storm-force

I grab at the flames

trying to capture

essence so profound

that my brain

can’t contain the heat

But the movement is too fast

and won’t wait

for my slow mind

to process what I’m seeing

and my slower hand

to record what I witness

For these few moments

my entire being 

is consumed 

by the gale-force words

I am scorched

by the hot gases

and the fear

that I can’t get 

it all down

on paper

Thoughts roar through me

one after another

light bulbs flash

deep understanding

astounds me

excited

fascinated

eager to get it

onto the page

I struggle

to keep it all contained

Too soon 

it’s over

the fuel and I

are spent

my brain gasps

for oxygen

a cool wind

blows through my soul

I can now rest

  ---Sasha Wolfe 2015

The poems are fresh and new and I could write one every morning. I even have the idea to do another poetry book with accompanying pictures geared to the topic of creativity. I certainly have written enough poems on the subject throughout the years to be their own book.

Creative Burst

It drops

out of the clouds

slams me into the ground

with the force

of a tornado

In moments

roaring winds

rip my soul to shreds

as the debris of words and ideas

crash against my walls

I have to capture them

I have to put it all together

I have to make them understandable

I struggle to hold together

keep my house

from falling apart

as the whirling forces 

strip me bare

Destruction and creativity

turn, spin, flip me upside down

then dissipate into the void

leaving me flattened 

on the floor

But oh the joy!

From the chaos

comes the awe

Once again

I am rewarded

with another bit

of writing

that leaves me

refreshed and renewed

      ---Sasha Wolfe, 2015

Then another exciting bit is I’ve finally decided on a path for my memoirs… yeah, like I need another project. But at least I have an idea. I’ve been wanting to put together a memoir for years, but I couldn’t figure out how I wanted to go about it. Oh, I am not explaining this well. My goal is not your normal life-story type of deal… and that’s all I’m going to say at this point.

However, there are many other things trying to grab my attention. I have articles to write, editing to do, and the community calendar to put together, and other assignments for the InterTown Record. I’m still settling in at the new house. There are the two books that are already in various stages and if I want to do any more traveling, I need to get that one book finished before I can take on another travel-writing project.

My brain is so intensely on fire for most of the day that it eventually shuts down. All I can do is crawl to the living room and become a couch potato until bedtime.

Giving Up the Paints… But…

“I think I’ll give up painting,” I announced to Nan yesterday. 

“That would be wise,” she replied. “I see you first as a writer and photographer then the charcoal drawings. You don’t have time to paint.” Nan tried to push me into getting rid of all the painting supplies before I left Bradford. I hung on.

But I have to be realistic… don’t I? 

When was the last time I picked up a brush? I did take a few acrylic painting classes and one in watercolor a couple years ago to inspire me to get back into painting, but as with many things, I didn’t follow through. I spent a lot of money on new supplies and they just sat. Yes, I did start a few canvasses, but after the initial work, they just collected dust.

But I think about painting!

I feel in my mind and remember how the paint glides smoothly onto the canvas. I see colors and patterns. Every time I see a painting or talk with other artists, I think, I could do that (in my own style, of course). When I see artists on TV, I want to paint, too. I don’t do it, though. 

But I feel it in my heart. 

How can I turn my back on it, throw it all away? How can I watch the supplies go out the door? 

But… if I really feel it in my heart, wouldn’t I be doing it? Writing takes preference over everything and photography is a big part. And I think about the drawings, too, before painting. So, I have to admit, painting is far down the list. I can’t do it all and with the books I’m lining up to write, I will never have/find time to paint.

Oh, this is hard, this letting go. These are my canvases, my paints, my supplies. I can visualize pictures in my mind – my pictures. But they don’t get done.

Then there’s this: If my focus is divided, how am I to do a great job? Writing is my main focus. There’s already the division with photography and charcoal drawing added. Why would I want to add another medium when I find it hard to finish projects higher on the list? 

This house doesn’t have the extra space for storage anymore either. Getting rid of all the painting supplies would allow more room for the drawing easels and table space for matting and framing photographs. There would be less clutter and maybe the supplies would go to someone who would actually use them.

Can I do this? Can I let it all go? Words have run out. I’m stuck between should, being smart and realistic, and giving up a piece of what I thought was part of me.

But, was it part of me if I never did it?

I Could Write Forever

The colors of autumn reached the hollow where I live. Leaves that see less sun are turning bright yellow while those trees across the road that get more sun have leaves of vibrant red. I love the crispness of the days and the aromas wafting on the breezes. The brook babbles its song and a flock of over 20 grackles gather at the water’s edge.

Inside I go through boxes of files in an effort to reorganize. I’m down to the last box – writings. Here are various folders, years full of poems, stories, and other writings. I found a couple stories written in the 70s and one with markings from a high school teacher. 

How can I keep everything? How do I decide which to save?

Some writings move to the trash bag with reluctance while others are put aside. Some of the writings are inspiring. Some stir a yearning to dive back into the depths of whatever subject is on the pages. I could write forever. I could expand on topics as some of the emotions laid bare on those papers still carry to today.

I am reminded of the hours spent delving into those emotions – emotions which I find fascinating. The mind is amazing and I learn a lot from the ability at putting my feelings into words. There’s something about seeing the experience in words (even when I struggle to find the right words to convey those emotion… which is like a treasure hunt). The written words take understanding of the situation to another level. I learn my truth. I accept who I am.

What do I do with these old writings? They tell the story of who I was, but also lay the path to who I am today. How can I just throw them away? There’s a history here. There’s a book to be developed from all of this. 

I study emotion. I study my reactions to emotions, to feelings, to circumstances. I know, as I experience this journey of life, I am not alone. But how do I talk about this journey of sentiment? How do I make this life-travel one filled with excitement when I am crashing? How do I create joy from despair? And I do.

Writing makes my soul dance with joy. I climb mountains. I fly. I sing at the top of my lungs. Writing picks me up when I crash. It saves me from being lonely and heals me when my heart breaks. 

So, what do I do with my old writings? There is much more story and poems to tell. The new weaves from the old and becomes new again. It’s exciting. I wish these feelings of joy for everyone… and yet, I understand not everyone can understand… and that becomes more fuel for the writing fire. Let the flames fan high. My writing has been too quiet of late.

But right now I have to finish going through those old files of writings. How do I organize them?

(And don’t say organize them to the round file, ha ha.)

Letting Go of That Which Once Meant a Lot

Movement out the window catches my attention. The brook runs high and fast from the earlier rain. The water’s fierceness draws me, for a brief moment, from the chaos swirling inside me. My mind is in turmoil.

My mother looks down on me from the perch where I keep her photo. Would she approve? Perhaps not for herself had she still been alive; she loved to hold onto stuff. But I have to believe that she would understand I have to do this. She would definitely like to see me get rid of music she didn’t like or approve of. Yeah, she would understand. She would support me. She smiles at me from her photo.

Today I went through my couple hundred CDs and half… or almost half went into a box to go out to the curb. I don’t know why I hang onto some of this. I can’t even really say it’s for the memories. Maybe the real reason is because it is MINE; my stuff, stuff that once meant a lot to me.

The key here is: once meant a lot. So, just because it meant a lot at one time, does that mean I have to keep it forever? For what purpose do I even care anymore? Many things have been stored in boxes for over 10 years. All it does is take up space – of which I have precious little now. What’s the problem in letting it go?

Letting Go of Stuff

The past is stacked

into a box

with care

soon to be carried

to the curb

free for the taking

Do it!

Don’t think!

Don’t remember!

Don’t feel!

I wrap my heart

in numbness

lest it starts to break

lest I refuse to let go

The past is 

the past 

and not needed

today or tomorrow

I hold myself tight

lock down feelings

so I won’t miss

what was once dear

I have to do this

Too late

my throat closes

my eyes leak

already I feel the loss.

---SW 09/2015

Rewriting Older Poems

In today’s blog, I use a couple pages pulled from the old book which were written in a waiting room. Waiting rooms of one form or another; whether it’s for a doctor’s appointment and car repair, and the time spent in limbo is similar. I hate the blaring TVs everywhere (and in restaurants, too). Heaven forbid people are alone with their own thoughts for awhile.

Instead they need to be assailed with the media trying to push products at them or some soap opera putting more drama to the senses. Some places blare the news and it’s all about disaster or the most recent government program taking away people’s rights (all in the pretext of protection or making life better – the question being making life better for who) or big business running another mom and pop store out of business. Is it to have someone else’s problems relieve those waiting of their own? Is it the need to be told what products they need to make their lives better? Is it only for distraction?

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy TV. I spend a couple hours watching every night, but the shows are my choices and I’m very fussy at what I subject myself to. I have a DVR to record the shows I watch so I can fast-forward through commercials – which I find absolutely disgusting. 

I do not want this in my life. Waiting time for me is used to write or read or meditate. The limbo-ness of waiting is an opportunity for reflection. I certainly don’t want to be bombarded by negative news excitement or have commercialism shoved down my throat. People don’t realize what the repetition of the same types of media messaging does to them. (Think about it – exercise and training is about repetition so the muscles, body, and mind can react quickly when needed. So when repetitive commercial messaging or having some official tell you over and over… it’s similar. Your body and mind takes it in. You believe what they are saying even when you, at first, don’t agree. It’s like being brainwashed.) 

But I digress. This topic is about waiting rooms. When I can, if no one is around, I will shut off the TV so I can sit quietly.

Waiting Room TV

I’ve been here before

been more affected before

I remember the feeling

remember the fear, the worry

the unfairness of it all

as some government news

attempts to control everything

I watch concern on others’ faces

hear their despair

feel their sorrow

It matches my own

and I refuse 

to subject myself

to the added stress.

(originally written 07/10/09; edited and titled 09/28/15 – SW)

And this one:

Meltdown 

“Computers are down”

people panic

can’t function

don’t know what to do

don’t know how to 

handwrite a form

communication shuts down

work stops

When technology fails

life comes to a standstill

I pull out

a notebook

and write

poetry.

And this one: 

TV Distraction

Breathe in

breathe out

an attempt to shut out

other noise

Sharp voices penetrate

blaring siren on TV

pull further in

breathe in

breathe out

concentrate on feet

center and ground

Shut out economic concerns

block out job loss fears

try not to feel it

as another business closes

desks sit empty

phones unmanned

Waiting seems forever

when listening 

to sad news. 

The Words Come

Poems come to me when I’m out and about. I always carry a notebook and pens, as I’ve said often. I write when I’m walking. Words flow when I’m driving, but I won’t stop then and usually I forget by the time I reach my destination. I tried doing the recorder while driving. It doesn’t work for me.

This is how my philosophy about the muse came about. When She (the words) come, I have to pay attention in that instant. If I don’t, She goes away. She demands immediate attention. When She gives attention to you, you’d better take the time to listen to her. Thankfully She doesn’t hold a grudge and will come back another time.

The notebook comes out when I’m in a restaurant waiting for a meal. Different atmospheres will sometimes evoke different feelings. Of course the current state of mind plays a role in what I write, too. Whatever comes out, I’m always amazed and pleased.

I knew a woman once who used to write these amazing, funny poems about food. My food poems tend to be how I try to use food to make me feel better when I’m down… and how it doesn’t work, ha ha. As much as I love certain foods and food can certainly be cheerful, it doesn’t help solve problems.

I wrote this poem in April of 2009 at my favorite restaurant, the Flying Goose Pub in New London. (I always like the words in the first two lines and have used them before and since). By this time, my mother’s health was really going downhill and it was hard to be away from her and I never knew what I’d find coming home. Would she be okay? Would she be miserable and awful to me because I’d been gone so long? (I’d usually try to bring her home something to eat to appease her.)

Don’t get me wrong. I loved her so very much! But it was hard. She’d try to be understanding when I went off. Sometimes when I got home, she’d be excited to hear about my adventures. Other times she’d be very angry and upset with me because I’d left her alone. So, I never knew which mom I’d come home to. I understood, too. It was hard for her.

Emotions Unreleased

My heart bleeds tears

my eyes will not shed

the knot in my gut 

will not allow release

It’s 1 p.m.

and I wonder 

if eating anything

will help

Driving for two hours

did not erase

the sadness

in my soul

The solitude

did not bring the comfort

usually found

while out and about

Maybe the weather

affects my mood

Maybe if it was warm and sunny

my mood would be also.

---SW

------

Friendships can ebb and flow. Sometimes words can sever a relationship. Sometimes boundaries are crossed. Sometimes ties need to be severed. It doesn’t have to be forever, though at the time, emotions are strong and the ego screams, “Never again!”

After some time, these words came to me. I don’t normally include little snide comments that my conscious mind can throw in, but in this case, I kept the comment.

Below are two poems written about broken friendship. Words spoken can easily be misconstrued or the hurt can cause such a spiraling down that it can take a long time to recover from. 

Friendship Betrayed

I thought by now

my heart would have healed

I thought by now

words would have lessened

the pain

But still I fear

What trust I had

has long gone

When will it return?

will I ever get it back?

(Maybe not where you’re concerned)

(originally written 04/23/09; edited and titled 09/26/15 – SW)

Did You Know

The chill in the air

matches that in my heart

Did you know your words

would cut my very soul?

Did you know I’d retreat

into a dark, damp abyss?

Did you know I would give up

everything I was building for myself?

You did not call

nor did I call you

Neither willing

to apologize

neither willing

to acknowledge wrong

I cannot face the distance

in your voice

nor the accusation

in your eyes

My loneliness 

eats at my joy

I will never

be the same

For now I will be alone

you cannot accept me

as I am

and I can’t be anything else

Did you know your words

caused me to change my entire life direction?

(originally written 04/23/09; edited 09/26/15 – SW) 

I’ve not talked much about this happening. I’ve not said what really happened to me or how I totally turned from a path I worked towards for many years. But I turned my back on all the training and the practices and focused on being only an artist and writer. I’ve never told anyone how it affected me; never said how I’m still affected.

I forgive other and self. Five years later I am happy to say the friendship rekindled. There are still scars. Someday I may talk about it fully. Not to place blame or find fault for there are at least two sides to every story. I played a part and I’m not blameless.

I would have been a great soul healer. It’s still in me. But the other path was chosen and I don’t have regrets. I love being an artist and writer!

When the Past Echoes to Today

In the reworking of the old poems to get them on the computer, I am surprised to find I still hold the feelings in my heart. Oh, the moment is not exactly the same, but there are echoes through time. I can still feel those emotions even though I am not in the same place.

Time, circumstances, and personal growth have made changes within, and yet, there’s that part of me that knows, that remembers, that understands. Some things don’t change much. There are things in a person’s soul, things embedded deep inside, that will always be there.

Maybe I am a person who carries sadness. That doesn’t have to be considered bad or negative. I will even admit there are times when I enjoy being in that place because it is a chance for exploration and discovery. I find it rather fascinating… when I can move beyond the personal in-the-moment emotional outburst, that is.

Writing allows me that chance to explore. How do I describe what I feel when often there are no real words? How do I let you know that I find excitement in these discoveries? 

It’s a definite treasure hunt. Find the right words to share pain while not making the writing sound depressed and unhappy. Find the right words to bring beauty to unpleasant moments. Find the right words to convey falling down into the dark depths of the well and crawling back out to vibrant sunshine and life. 

Writing poetry that comes from those darkest places is like shining a beautiful light into the soul. The words enable me to find my way out. What joy to see that light! What joy to put the words on paper or the computer and see that I’ve done something amazing. What joy to be alive to experience these things.

In Limbo

I don’t know when

I quit shedding tears

Sorrow gathers in my heart

like autumn bees

sucking the last nectar

from a dead rose

It doesn’t matter

I sit with this moment

of sadness

knowing joy is just

around the bend 

of a mind

when it agrees to yield

I don’t know why

mountains shed color

and new coats

shiver in different hues

What once my heart

called delicious

is now stale

Yesterday’s hunger

Does not satisfy

the cold breath

of a frigid morn

My mind overheats

and I lie

on a bed of coals

waiting for spring.

(Original writing 11/07/08; edited 09/23/15 –SW)

For the Beloved

Snow fell 

ice formed

walls came down 

for a brief glimpse

before

doors slammed shut 

I could never be

until

I acknowledged

But you knew

and you waited

with a patience

I could never 

achieve

Oh, Beloved,

when summer

becomes fall

will you still love me?

(Originally written 02/09; edited 09/23/15 – SW) 

I occasionally write about the Beloved, although I’ve not shared many of those poems. Maybe it’s because I am unsure how to describe Beloved and is it THE Beloved or is it just Beloved?

Beloved isn’t any one person, or even a person per se. I don’t know if Beloved is God or Great Spirit… Maybe Beloved is different for each one. I’m not even sure if Beloved is male or female, though most of the time, I feel She is female. But it doesn’t matter.

Beloved… higher spirit, my higher spirit, it doesn’t matter. There is something greater, something beyond this realm, something watching, waiting to be acknowledged…

A Walk in the Past

Today in looking through that old notebook to record poems written there onto the computer, I reach the year 2007 and 2008. Here are writings of doctors’ appointments and long waits in waiting rooms. Here is some of the anguish as we dealt with my mother’s declining health (mental and physical) and my own declining mental well-being. I could not be the daughter she wanted me to be and that cut a hole in my heart.

Feeling Lost

Asking questions

I cannot answer

searching for truths

only she can find

I soothe the energies

reach invisible arms

of comfort

of listening

of understanding

I know the pain

I once walked

these very shores

crying my heart out

to the wind.

--SW

Nightmare

Tunnels and rock

square, hard, and dusty

the narrowing chokes

breath and mind

saps all strength

Nothing to feel

but fear and terror

filling my entire soul

I can’t go on

What was this

that happened

the other night?

What was this fear 

that had me trapped

in my own mind?

I fought my way

out of the dream

missing the message.

--SW

And, of course, there are words of past relationships:

But

I thought I was

but I was wrong

I thought he was

but he wasn’t

Was I wrong to trust?

I wonder

but I cannot be

anything else

but what I am. 

--SW

Betrayal

Words cut deep

a cold jagged knife

shreading my soul, 

leaving me questioning

my very being

Hurtful words ripped

through my heart

creating a bleeding gaping hole

filled with tears

my eyes cannot shed

I have become

an empty wasteland

in a body lost of joy

sorrow grows like mold

its seeping ugliness

spreads through my mind 

screaming obscenities

to the wind

What did I do wrong?

My cries echo

through the barren canyons

of my mind

until my tongue lies still

and eyes leak the pain

I cannot hide

For now

I am dead

there’s no hiding

from the grief

of shattered friendship

(From two poems originally written 09/12/08; edited 09/22/15 – SW)

Healing

To heal

I must let

time and nature

melt the pain

My soul

I must sink 

into the earth

where the womb

of the Great Mother

will bring me

back to life.

--SW 09/12/08

Back to the Roots of My Creativity

Selling the Bradford house and preparing to move took the entire spring and summer seasons. My entire life was wrapped up in downsizing and moving. Life, my artist’s life, was put on hold as the stress built. This week will be the fourth in the new house… which I cannot call home… yet. 

The artist’s call is growing strong again, and I steal time from unpacking and organizing to catch up on some much-needed creativity. It’s my strongest suit – writing – which has saved me so many times in the past and will save me now.

Today I continue going through an old notebook to record onto the computer the writings I recorded while out and about for the past ten years. I am trying to decide what to do with them. Many should be gathered into a book; a book about my life. I’m not quite sure what to call this new book or even how to organize it. Maybe that doesn’t matter at the moment. Maybe it’s good enough to save the writings to that folder of “memoirs” or the one of “poems.”

In This Instant

I have no words

for the emptiness

that waits in my soul

I have no words

to describe the way

I experience life

Too often I am dimmed

my tongue not seeing

what my eyes hear;

my mind is speechless

I touch a rose

but cannot decipher

the language

that wraps itself

around my heart

in tissue paper

In this instant

I am nothing.

In this instant

I am everything.

In this instant

there is no I.

This instant

is the simpleness

(or the greatness)

of just being

in a moment.

(Originally written 09/13/06 and edited 09/21/15 --SW)

This is an example of what I feel when I am able to reach a certain… space… within myself. It is within me, and yet, it comes through me from somewhere else when I am open to whatever there is. This is what poetry is like for me. I sit and wait for words. 

It is about opening to something greater than just the self. It’s moving beyond the mind chatter. It’s about trusting that something will come and whether it is a bubbling up from the well inside or it comes from somewhere “out there:” my higher power, God, Great Spirit, or whatever, doesn’t matter.

Trust is the issue. Trusting that whatever happens in that moment of sitting is the right thing. Sometimes the words that surface don’t make much sense, but if I am patient and trust that everything is all right, the writing happens. And although most of my poems are short, there is often a surprise as the ending isn’t what I expect.

A Change in the Song

This week there was a change in my perspective in how I see myself, in how I perceive others as seeing me. I truly feel I am coming into my own. I am achieving and have achieved some of my goals; goals so many years in coming, that I hardly recognize them now that they are near. Oh, I will never be perfect, but I can settle for “being perfect at being imperfect.”

“They Will Never Write Songs about Me” was a poem I wrote 20 years ago. This was my signature poem; a poem that stated how I felt about myself and how I was learning to understand and accept who I was/am. To this day, I cannot read or recite this poem without tears:

They Will Never Write Songs about Me

Sometimes I feel so insignificant

so useless, so unimportant.

I am certainly nobody’s hero,

never one to be looked up to

never to stand out in a crowd.

I will never BE somebody.

I am destined to stand in periphery

and they will never ever write songs about me.

Sometimes I get a glimpse beyond;

a glimpse, a fragile glimpse

of parted curtain, thinning veil.

What is it I see beyond the beyond?

clouded view of what could be,

cannot tell if it’s really me;

fear pulls the shade, no longer free,

and they will never ever write songs about me.

At times I am uncomfortable

when I look upon myself.

Who do I think I am

to dream I can be different?

So I continue to live in shadow

hovering between fear and wanna be.

I know that no one will ever see,

know too, they will never write songs about me.

But, to know I have a purpose

in the greater scheme of life,

to dare to make my stand,

to know I have a choice.

I AM one who lives in both worlds,

I guess it’s my destiny

Living in the periphery

is why they will never write songs about me.                       

Out of the well of darkness

of heartache and despair,

comes words to release the pain, the grief

and it’s these I wish to share:

fame and fortune care not for me,

open heart, open hand for all to see,

Letting everyone know it’s okay with me

that they will never ever write songs about me.

                                                   ---Sasha Wolfe

It came to me as I drove around that I have to be careful when out and about, especially in Bradford. Yes, the vanity plate on my Ford Escape gives me away, but it’s not only that; people know who I am. Those who read the “InterTown Record” see my name as editor, on articles, in my weekly Bradford Neighbors column, and under photos. They’ve seen my artwork displayed at various venues. They’re coming to know me (and I, them) as I search out people to interview.

Yesterday, I realized from the greetings I received that the poem is no longer accurate. I am recognized about town and if people don’t know me by sight, they know my name. (I remember how I felt a couple years ago meeting Laura Jean Whitcomb, editor of “Kearsarge Magazine.” I felt I was meeting a celebrity.)That was a big revelation, an eye opener. Oh, it’s been slowly building, but yesterday’s conversations made me feel a bit like I am a local celebrity. (It’s also humbling to think that. Who am I to think that of myself?)

However, before I get too big of a head, I am also very aware of my short comings. How wonderful it is when people nod greetings with smiles and often speak, but I am terrible with names and it’s embarrassing to admit it. I wait for a hint while they are talking to give me a clue to their name. I recognize the faces, know I’ve met them before, but the names or who exactly they are elude me. It makes me feel guilty. They know me, I should remember them!

I talk about the need for editing and proofreading and yet, I still make mistakes. Every time I write an article for the paper, I worry if I got the facts right, that people will like what I wrote, and I feel bad when I make a mistake. And of course, no one realizes how hard it is for me to actually “go out in the world” to get the interviews or cover a story or event. I struggle with groups. Still, I am making the effort and getting better at it.

Yesterday’s revelation is putting me into a whole different awareness. I want to be more careful how I act (and react) – and I realize that’s exactly what I need to do – act. The acting doesn’t mean I am pretending to be someone I’m not. I would never be comfortable in that kind of a role. This acting means that I have to shine my inner light, not hide behind insecurities, and always be courteous and friendly. I want to appear upbeat and positive. I want to hold my head high and exude a confident, but humble, attitude.

I always want to be nice, but now I am more aware of that need. I have to remember to smile when, for the most part, I am a somber person. I’m happy and content on the inside mostly, but I don’t always portray exuberance. I want to be a courteous driver and smile and wave at people I pass. I want to take my time, let others go first, etc. I want to be known for being a good writer, artist, photography and an all-around good person.

Most of all, I just want people to like me. I want them to like and admire my work. I want to sell my books, drawings, photographs, and other work; not only because of the need to make a living, (which I do need) but for the joy of sharing what I love.

“They Will Never Write Songs about Me” is changing… I am changing, have changed. They never will write songs about me, but people know who I am now or they’ve at least heard my name. I can no longer say, “I will never be somebody…” because I AM somebody. We are all somebodies and we need to know it and own it! I am “living the life of an artist” and that makes me so happy. I love what I do.

A new poem will be forthcoming…

Official Book Signing

Today I worked on what to say during an authors’ night program at the Brown Memorial Library in Bradford on Thursday, Sept. 11 at 7 p.m. I’m sharing the spotlight with another author who recently published a poetry chapbook. We each get half an hour to talk.

The subject of writing is a passion of mine and being limited to half an hour won’t be easy. The time has to also include reading, selling and book signing. Do I talk just about the book itself and the journey? Do I talk about the writing process and getting the book published?

The audience will need to buy a book before getting it signed, and because the library has a policy of no selling inside, the purchases will have to be made outside. (Or they could purchase one online or previously through me.) This is a bit awkward, but rules are rules. I am hoping that locals will pre-buy, bring their copies to be signed, and listen to the talk. I am also wondering if I ought to arrange to show up early (if the weather is good) and sit outside with my books for a bit.

Writing and selling my books is not my first go-round. I’ve written previous books and have participated in library events in the past. My latest book, “Too Cold for Alligators” is more professionally published. (I improve with each.) It’s my first “real” book as the others have been poetry and/or photography. I’m very excited about this latest adventure. I hope Thursday is a good turnout.

Hard copies of the books can be purchased through me, www.amazon.com or www.authorhouse.com. The two companies also offer an ebook version. Type in the title and it will take you to the book. You can even read an excerpt. 

Celebrating the Start of the Year

I am in the process of re-vamping my website and working with Dr. Bob to help promote myself further. He set me up with a program in which I can post photos myself to the site. I've got a start on it. I have all the text updates completed and we are working on getting the right size fonts and tightening things up.

There are still a couple of issues to take care of. The first is the blog. I don't know what happened in my system, but now I have to sign out of tds and into gmail to work on the blog. I never used to go through this before. Sometimes it doesn't work. This has put a damper on my postings as I feel I have to "fight" with this all the time. I am considering another blog site, but that would mean learning another program and changing things around. (As you can see, this morning it works.)

I am also designing a Purchasing of Images and Products page for my website show that I can show everyone what I am selling. I want to take photos of what the three different types of cards that I do and supply descriptions for those of you who cannot physically look at the card ahead of time.

Besides note cards and frame cards, I'm going to do a Pick and Choose Poetry Card in which I will have some of my poems listed. You can choose a poem then go to my art gallery and choose a photo and I will print a card or cards. What's great about these cards is that these will make awesome gifts. These can be keepsake cards in that the card can be cut in half and put in one of those two-picture frames so there will be a nice photograph and the poem.

I am very excited about this year, 2014. I have many ideas and projects in the works. Some of which entails finishing the ones from 2013. Updating the website is just one of the works in progress and should be finished soon. I also need to get back to the two books that are being worked on. I have many new photographs with which to make cards and prints to build a new inventory. Yes, times are very exciting.

"The Fire in the Song"

The Fire in the Song

He said, “If you only stop singing, I’ll make you safe.” And he repeated the line, knowing you would hear “I’ll make you safe.”  - David Whyte in his poem “The Fire in the Song”

There’s something about that line that ran through my mind this morning as I contemplated the plight of our society. If you only stop singing, I’ll make you safe. I hear the words in Whyte’s voice and in his inflection, And he repeated the line, knowing you would hear “I’ll make you safe.”

Whyte is talking about creativity, but I am hearing the words to now mean something more. This year has been a time of question for me as I’ve researched and studied certain aspects of the past. A lot of what we were taught as history is now being found to be untrue. People, who we were taught were heroes, often had a darker, not-very-nice side. (The media, even before it was known as media, played up aspects “they” wanted the public to know. We know that goes on today.) People we were taught to look up to as having our best interests at heart, more often than not were only following their own agendas. Yes, there are those who mean to do well, but a lot of the times, the best of intentions goes by the wayside.

“I’ll make you safe” is a want in all of us when we hear about the terrorism that goes on in the world, when people kill for no good reason (that we can see) or when kids shoot up schools. The media plays up the horror until we are afraid to leave our homes. We cry out our fears and organizations are developed to make us feel safe. Mental illness or mental instability is blamed. Drugs are used to control with often horrible side effects. People are locked down, locked up, and locked in.

But do we really feel safe? I can’t help but wonder if all the hype is just a ploy to still tongues. How do we balance protection versus lack of privacy? With everything being done to “protect” us (sounds kind of mafia-ish,) terrible things still happen, have always happened. I don’t know the answers. What are we willing to give up to feel safe and how much is really necessary?

Yes, I question. Yes, I am afraid. Life has always been a big adventure in a way. You never know what’s really going to happen. Even those with supposedly mundane lives can experience a drastic change in a heartbeat. I used to swear that I would not live in fear, but I can’t help it, and the thing is, I don’t know what scares me the most; the fear of terrorism or the loss of privacy.

It upsets me that we can’t drive down the street without pictures being taken of us, that our children cannot wait for the bus without a parent present, or that armed guards are patrolling our schools. There’s a part of me that believes the more fear we have, the more we will have to fear. Fear calls to itself.

Whyte’s poem hits home for me on many levels.

The Fire in the Song

The mouth opens

and fills the air

with its vibrant shape

until the air

and the mouth

become one shape

And the first word

your own word

spoken from that fire

surprises, burns

grieves you now

because

you made that pact

with a dark presence

in your life.

He said, “If you only

stop singing

I’ll make you safe.”

And he repeated the line,

knowing you would hear

“I’ll make you safe”

as the comforting

sound of a door

closed on the fear at last

but his darkness

crept under your tongue

and became the dim

cave where

you sheltered

and you grew

in that small place

too frightened to remember

the songs of the world,

its impossible notes,

and the sweet joy

that flew out the door

of your wild mouth

as you spoke.

            --- David Whyte

The Brink of Madness

The Brink of Madness

The earth rumbled

my foundation shook 

the windows of my soul

rattled and shattered

In the black hole

punched in my heart

I hold two broken ends

as hurricane winds

tear through the darkness

Barely hanging on

I can’t close the gap

to the mental chaos

threatening to rip the threads

from my aching hands

I’m on the abysmal brink

of madness

and I’m slipping

What joy in me

has scattered in the wind

All that I am

has been torn asunder

The joy that made me so happy

brutally stripped from my being

I’m on the abysmal brink

of madness

and I’m slipping

My heart lies

crushed and bleeding

Your thoughtless words

raped my soul

Your impersonal comments

left me for dead

I’m on the abysmal brink

of madness

and I’m slipping

I stare at the half finished canvases

feeling nothing but despair

I’m on the abysmal brink

of madness

and I’m falling in.