Dear Me: Writing Heals.



Begin with the deep honor of waiting. Wait for the words, but while you do, write like you are coming on to the page, like it’s blankness has been waiting for you and only you::  the only one who can fill it with what it craves. Swagger on up {ain't nobody can swing those hips like you, baby}.  Nothing is stopping you from getting it, because it’s a mutual attraction.  Like magnets you are. Offer anything down because anything + everything is what you are willing to give.  You will give anything. Remember this: anything.

You and writing have been brought together by the undefined force of the eternal record keeper of yourself.

You and writing have been like this since before you can remember.  You and Creation made a pact, a blood promise, a nuptial from The Source.  This is what you came here to do.

It can feel like confusion, strands of chaos coming from every direction.  Long endless threads and sharp shards and crazy gravel twisters.  It can feel like your DNA is being pulled apart like county fair taffy, being spun out like rainbow cotton candy. You'll turn inside out and feel like you're jacked up on something illegal.  You might write an unidentifiable language, a type of  tongues, words stumbling on top of words. Crazy talk. But eventually there is a spark of realization. There always is.  Eventually the words meet you right where you are. This can’t be forced.  Bring no judgments. This can take a while.  Find your drink and keep a supply at hand.

Smash your watch and rip your calendar and burn them both in the fire.  Here you must remember you are non-linear, un-labeled, a spiral of existence.  You go by the moon and the stars and the movement of the sea.

Slam the doors of doubt and feed the keys to your dragons that you are about slay with the power of the pen. Come in your red room with nothing but your moments incarnating as words.  Let each one ripple through your spine.  Let each syllable buckle your knees. Bawl like a baby.  Howl at the moon. Look through your wet and glossy eyes.  Keep writing.

Bring your fire, a bit of earth from under your feet, wind to blow away the bullshit, a slice of heaven against your head.  Let the fluids flush and swell your body.  Bring fingers and hands, blessed by you, as they are gracious messenger from the gods.  Your fingers and hands are holy business.  Kiss them.  Give them some magical rings in stones of reds and  blues.  

Don’t think too much, MaryBeth.  It doesn't suit you.  Don’t come with an agenda.  Agenda’s aren’t good stories {certainly good stories can change the world, but that’s not the point} Agenda’s try hard and come from a place of knowing something. 

 The greatest gift of service is coming to the blank page with tempestuous unknowing and open-ended love.

Come knowing nothing and be willing to give even that away. If something is born from nothing, give that away too.  Give it all away. 

Your words are a body of water that is free-falling abundance. They aren’t yours to keep anyway.   And there is always more to come.  When you give it all away, you create space for the eternal return of creation’s sparks.  You make room, sisterlove. Make plenty of room. You like the freedom to stretch, bend and twist.  You like the freedom to go from Warrior to Half Moon to Turtle to Death.  You like the freedom to choose.  And the only way to get that is to create space.

Write for the same reason the wind blows the cottonwood branches in storms and scatters them across the field: Because it has to.  It scatters history, scatters the skulls of the story, scatters the dried skin of yesterday. Maybe someone will come across those branches and make something from them.  Maybe they'll just smell it's buds of deep earth, sticky sex, uncommon character, and musky understanding.  Maybe they’ll just notice them and nod YES, understanding the story the wind meant to tell.  Seeing their own in it.  And re-telling it, different but the same.  Maybe they'll just think what the winds blown is beautiful.  And that is enough.  More than enough.

Write because you carry the weight of life. The lives of before. The lives not yet lived. Your load is both as light + whimsical as white snow goose wing and as heavy as the rock of Gibraltar.  Dance the balance with wordplay.  Scribble notes in the middle of the night against dark dreams on paper you can never find in the morning.  Scribe right on the wood floor, engraved in your foundation, to be seen by whoever pays attention to details. Write the weight away, each word drops a pound or ten.  Write until there is light. You are worth a moment of light.

Each story you dare to scratch into life brings you closer to defying gravity. Weightless. Unattached.

Write for the same reasons you make love. 

An unquenchable desire. To go deeper.  Into flesh.  Into fertile ground. To taste the legacy of the skin, the antiquity of the sweat, to know the cracks of ancient memory, to remember the round of the shoulder until you die. Write to move energy through the body, unsticking the stuck.  Write for the taboo. To breath out the forbidden. To connect with something more than you.  Connect only with you.  Connect with everything from the most outrageous nebula and back. Write because it feels damn good and you never want it to end.  So learn to linger.  And linger even longer.  Linger until you can’t wait a second more before you explode. Write because you like to explode. Write in commitment of being bit and sucked and slammed. To have your fantasies fulfilled in 3 sentences flat.  Just like that.  Write to know the in’s and the out’s of the body’s map.  To know the story of sin, of skin, blood, breath, movement, sound, longing, pleasure, manifestation.

Write because it’s how you get through this whole thing, this life.  Write so you know you’re not sleepwalking, not set on soft focused, but on wide angle.  Write to know what you’ve done, what you’ve seen and what you’ve heard.  Write because it’s proof you are paying attention. Write because you want to remember what you've been paying attention to.  

Write because there is nothing else to do.  What else do you have to do, really? Write because if you don’t the Divine will kick your ass into boring oblivion, stealing your voice and showing you what it feels like to be silent.  And you will not be silent. No. It's virtually impossible for you to be silent.  I've known you since forever and that's not your thing. Silence is equal to the darkest of death.  

Write because you know how to shut up and listen.

Write because words manifest.  Write because it heals the hurt, the stinging that’s unbearable, the ache of refusing to know what you don’t want to know.  Write because it heals the emptiness of knowing too much. Write as practice in leaning into pain and wearing patience as your parachute.  Write your way into self-acceptance. Write your way into your life, the life that is writing it's way into you.

Writing heals you.  Write what you want, what your body came here to write.  And only you know what that is.  Only you.  

Write despite what the world thinks of your words.  Write without the world in your mind.  Write never showing anybody a word.  Write because you have to, you need to.  Chances are it’s exactly what the world needs, but keep the magic for yourself for a while, until alchemy happens, on it’s own, for real.  And it will happen.  It always does.  Always.  Write for the magic because you are a sorceress.  Write.  Please write. It's what you came here to do.