“I’m in.” That’s what I said when I decided to subscribe to “the muse is in writing club.”
I’m in because I’ve isolated myself for the last two years. And, I’m in because the word club appealed even though I’m a loner. I thought it might spark the desire to retry, to write prose poems and minuscule lyric essays. Again.
I’m in flux, caught somewhere between grief and acceptance, surprised by the intensity that wishes, regret, remembering and memory and death, even a pet’s, can bring.
I’m in the sitting room, slouched on a small couch, feet propped on the coffee table edge, iPhone typing, surrounded by dogs–my Elvis laying in Mikah’s spot on the back of the love seat now that she’s forever gone, and Craig’s three are visiting while he does laundry; Bailey’s on the chair I covered with a faux fur throw. Rueben and Ava are sprawled on the rug, noses resting on paws.
I’m in a run on sentence, pretending to be a complete paragraph, a story circling the way a dog will before it settles with a relieved sigh into a fetal, resting position.
I’m in New York, the western part of the state, not the city, in school, again, zooming across the country to California the way Google Earth does via the web. I’m enrolled in online art classes at the Sketchbook Skool, and in a beginning watercolor class.
I’m in Florida, too, riding an out bound satellite wave length, a boomerang recoding, recording what I intended to write, my ordinary life in the Documented Life Project.
I’m in remission from writing which is an odd way to describe my desire to become a nature-writer-that-made-an-impact, but that sounds better than saying “I have writer’s block” or “I’m lazy and procrastinating” because those are an admission to fear, an excuse. A quitter. That goal to be a writer for what can’t speak, that purpose is too…what? Vague? Futile? Heartbreaking? Unobtainable if I can’t make an impact, be sustainable?
I’m in transition, at another edge of not knowing what my purpose is.
I’m in, into learning, going back towards another beginning.
Learn. It’s my word for 2014. I’m into reminders, also, enter them into my phone. Siri, the pseudo-wife.
So, “I’m in,” looking inward, under rocks, avoiding mirrors. I’m in a twilight year, sliding down the remaining months of a fifth decade.