Meeting the Edge in Writing Practice
The waters edge.
Mustard yellow lichen flat against rock slices, seeping into the sea from cliff edge.
I watch them in white shorts and clean trainers wobble across rocks, arms outstretched for balance.
Quietly helping each other when the other loses footing.
Old black Labrador more sure on four legs.
The way that the pen will make connections and take me to the depths, always takes me by surprise.
It wants to get to the heart of things over time. Repeating the same old words and stories, the same thoughts patterns and gripes, the pen gets bored. My pen has gotten bored. Like training for a marathon with 50 metre jogs.
A want to go further, see what is there, what is beyond the known zone.
Today I got taken into memories of being caught shop lifting when I was 17.
Not soon after I had landed there, I picked the pen nib up, stopped, made a note of what to write about another time: “hiding the ways we cope”, and promptly ate some humous, oat cakes and an apple. Disappeared into the food.
A classic habitual step for me.
I wasn't that hungry.
There was also a voice saying “but this is you writing for your blog, you want to share this stuff?! This is too edgy.” So there was also that stop button. A stop from the alive, raw, human, unearthing of a life moment. A moment my pen has not explored in detail before.
A couple of things come up for me here about this…
Firstly, learning to continue when discomfort of something raw arises in writing practice, this is something I am working with. Something I long to overcome.
To commit to going in deep.
Distractions seem all the more enticing when the discomfort comes.
However, this isn't about poking a pain and trauma for some sadistic reason, but to learn and uncover gold, richness, earth, like in an unmasking of this human experience.
To know how these things look now, in this light on this day.
Excavate with a wisdom on the page.
Uncover the compassion.
Draw connections.
Own the story.
Secondly there is a conversation happening between different parts of myself here.
The part that knows and trusts the writing practice, that I am held by the page, pen, ink, body, breeze, sunlight and breath.
The part that is still feeling shameful about this things that happened, half of my life time ago and doesn't want to feel like that again.
The part that wants to really vomit it all out, raw, un-chewed, whimpering and feels it needs some quick validation, preferably from everyone, that it’s ok.
There is also the part of me that wants to stay really still, really safe, put my fingers in my ears and molly coddle my way back to inaction.
This part is not to be mistaken for self care.
Self care is the part that holds my own hand in pursuit of knowledge and understanding, doing the things I so very much want to do, and knows my limits.
The other, resisting part sounds and feels very much like an overly cautious parent that sees the potential risk ahead and says “oh no, be careful, you might fall, watch out, don’t do that, stay here, stay safe.” All beautifully well meaning, yet with little space to text, push, explore, learn and grow.
So, I have taken a step back to look at this broader picture and write from there.
From the river mouth, or to be more exact, the sea edge.
With timer on, held by the 15 minute timer, the page, the pen, my body.
To begin to unpick a moment, a u-turn.
I walk the edge and stand in the shallows, marvel at the expanse and quiver at the depths.
Watching the lapping to the shore.
The ebb and flow in and out of the expanse.
Soles rooted in salted sand.
