safderun
Tell me about a time you felt moved to do the thing you love.
I am in the hills of Antalya, seeking sunlight. It is so dense and thick in the trees the river is covered, and dappled light breaks through the boughs. The pools are like holding ice cubes in a palm. It burns for several seconds until the body assimilates to the extreme. I stuck my toes in the mud and waded until the water reached my navel. That is far enough for me to feel roused.
What is it to nudge someone into their creative process? A writing prompt will not suffice. I can ask you many questions and provide guidance, but the real task is listening to what the heart has to sing.
You must refrain from reaching out and asking for it.
You cannot clasp it once you have it.
It is like a river, moving gently and flowing in all directions, though the tempo is not fixed.
Sometimes when I sit down to write, the rhythm is easy. The words come, and there is no striving. As soon as I push, the process is scratched like the table where I sit. Someone stuck a heater under the wood to warm their feet. It had snowed, and the hut was very cold. The wood heated and snapped, so now the hood has a crack.
Morris warned me against placing the heater under the table though I had no need. It has been thirty degrees and midday, I draw the green curtains across the tapered glass doors to conceal myself from the light.
I do not want my work to feel like the misshapen wood. It needs to be smooth, though not flawless. I like it when there are deviations from what is expected. Expectations must be shattered, and I tend to poke-poke-poke until the thing splits and the insides are exposed.
Anticipation is what rouses me from slumber. The slump, stagnation, and decay. If you knew about a splendid spot to picnic, would you tell people about it, or would you keep it for yourself? I am less interested in your answer and more vested in the inquiry - what is it to conceal or reveal a thing?
When an idea spreads, it shapeshifts and enters the mainstream. It is diluted a little bit to be easily digestible by the average mind. Only some have the luxury of reading as much as I do. Clara likes to say that many people need to be given the tools or opportunities to practice them.
How many lessons are seeping deep into me as I move on the periphery? I am never sneaky, though I am prone to keeping to the outside track.
This morning I woke to the seeds knocking on the balcony. Hard green ovals that roll and get stuck between the planks. Burnt olive leaves are scattered across my yoga mat. I will sweep with the blue broom and brush them over the lip of the porch. I watered the cacti, and it's about time to do it again. Purple, pink, and yellow flowers are on the tips of three small bushes, and the spindles stick out as a warning. Don't get too close; I look but do not touch.
The cat has not been around for three days. I feel it's because the dogs next door have been very loud. It sounds violent, though I know they're kind. One followed me up the hill to my car, running alongside. It has short gold fur and a long pink tongue. The dogs bark all night, and I have slept poorly the past few days. I was upset with the owners until I heard the man laughing. A guttural choke with lots of phlegm. He cannot breathe well. She is squat, heavy and needs a cane to support her as she strolls, which is difficult on the hillside. I am out of breath from some of the steep inclines. I send them the green light and compassion, the man, the woman, and the two dogs.
My days are very similar in tone and texture. I wake to the Fajr prayers before five. The mosque is far away, so it is faint, though I know it in my body. I think I feel it first, and then I hear it. The roosters cry out shortly after, and then the dogs start. So my day is busy before six am. I brew coffee at the metal percolator and put a little sugar in it to sweeten it. I am not drinking milk or taking any dairy products.
I've been sitting to write with the curtains flung wide open so I can look out the tapered glass at the hills. I face East to feel the sunlight. My home is very hot midday; I know this from how warm it is when I return from the city.
Haycoffee is my little cafe, where I sit and work for a few hours before I stroll to the beach. It is a twenty-five-minute drive to the cafe, and then I walk to the beach. It is the quieter side where many families set up camp. I rubbed sunscreen on my mouth yesterday, and a Turkish woman watched me with her daughter on her lap. She wore long dark robes and a headscarf, and I wondered how hot she was under all the layers, though she looked more comfortable than I felt. We smiled at each other and had a silent conversation. It was quite nice.
I didn't go in the water yesterday because I had my computer. The stones on the beach are large, smooth, and round, and I prefer the rock to the sand.
Everyone smokes at the beach, which gave me a headache, so I left early, walked the boardwalk west, and listened to the wind. It will storm today. Emer sent me photos from Istanbul, and it is cloudy further north. Feliz says that the tempest passes quickly and not to worry; I can go to the beach every day if I like!
She's invited me to the river tomorrow and for dinner with her friend who is housesitting while she and Morris are away. I will bring a bottle of wine and try to memorize the path to the waterfall when we go on the trek. I have not been on the paths since I was lost the other day. It is not far from home though I know my lack. I will not be able to get myself back if I go too far. Small ripples.
I'm reading Hilda Hilst - the novel I shipped to Clara that I've been carrying for months. One page at a time. I am savoring it; there are less than 70 pages! I could breeze through it though I am learning to take my time with some things.
I broke one of the beautiful ceramic dishes in the home yesterday morning. It was green and white and fit into my palms. I liked how wee it felt and how pretty it looked dressed up in the dark grapes and red plums.
I've been washing my hair in salt water for the past two weeks, and it feels light and loose on my shoulders.
The 'w' key keeps sticking on my laptop, so I am thinking of using words without this letter. It is sticky and slowing me down.
Maybe this is a sign?
I don't recall any of my dreams which is unusual for me, and I think it's because of how dark the room is. It absorbs my thoughts and feelings; when I wake, it's as if I'm reborn, without memory of what has come before.
Is it possible to make choices without knowing a history of a thing? Do we need all the information of the past to make better decisions for our future?
Or can we feel the thing in our body and know what it is to be True?
There is an obsession with recording and reflecting; I don't want any of it. I am happy to open my eyes and forget everything that came beforehand. Sometimes the past slows a person down. It is cumbersome to be traveling with so many thoughts and objects.
Photo source.
