laughter filled the room.
Boisterous and free,
it changed everything
For a moment.
I ran across this project in my Twitter feed this morning and thought I could be up to the challenge: in a nutshell, do something for 100 consecutive days.
You can read about the project, and the folks behind it, Elle Luna and The Great Discontent, HERE.
For my part, I need to commit to a project. Easy. I want to write one poem a day for the next 99 days. I’m sure a few will be good. I expect most to be, if not awful, then probably so-so. I can live with that, especially if out of the batch I can have some work to revise, rework, and repurpose.
I’m looking forward to the freedom of creating without having to worry about quality. I’m going to trust the process, and trust myself. My favorite piece of this?
Stop doubting. Start doing.
How to capture the manifestation of “express yourself” when it’s a poem? By piling up all my journals into a nice little bed.
And writing a poem, of course.
I visited Emily Dickinson’s home this weekend, a tremendous treat for me since she’s one of my favorite poets. It was a delightful way to spend a little time indoors on a rainy New England afternoon. I loved seeing the little bits of history they had there, but I especially enjoyed a little moment upstairs in her bedroom, where I stood at the window and looked out at the field she must have gazed upon a million times. The docent explained she was playful and would call to the neighborhood children playing out there and lower a little basket of gingerbread to them.
What a quirky thing! I loved the thought of a playful Emily, laughing in that room.
I also liked hearing about it — that somehow enough of her life was recorded that these kinds of stories could be shared. I wondered what people might say about me when I’m gone. I hope they say I liked to laugh. And I was kind.
What about you? What would people say about your life?
I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.
Nor had I time to love, but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me.
and can’t be