Disappearing Act

ImageAy, the blog.

I disappeared those last few months of 2013.

I do that sometimes, get buried under tasks and meetings. I don’t make the time to sit quietly and reflect. But it wasn’t just tasks and meetings; I got buried under fear and disappointment, lost in that tape that too often plays in my head: Am I doing enough? Am I good enough? When will I feel like I am enough?

Even the voice rushing to my defense wields a bludgeon. Of course you’re good enough? What’s wrong with you? Why do you always do this? Why aren’t you ever satisfied?


2013 was rough. Family stuff, relationship stuff, personal stuff, writing stuff, transitions, friends in crisis.

It wasn’t all heaviness. There was rain. Here, rain is good. There was light. There was the reunion with the Desnudas, hours writing in a little house in south Texas. The Belize women met up in Seattle and took a ferry to San Juan Island for a long weekend of drinking tea (well, okay, and wine), visiting lavender and alpaca farms, watching a pod of orcas, and long talks into the night. A group of mujeres decided to turn our stories into a stage production, so I started writing a play. We got a puppy. I wrote new poems and read at Sunday Chatter. P. jumped more than a grade level in reading. K. lit up the stage dancing at his school’s annual cultural celebration. I took swimming lessons. Henry and I celebrated our second anniversary with hot springs and massages (and Café Bella Luca and the Passion Pie Café) in Truth or Consequences. I started (and kept) lifting weights. Our little family walked to the Río Grande the weekend after unexpected rains swelled our río to levels not seen since the early 70s. We saw viejitos, backpackers, little boys with buzz cuts and Raiders jerseys, families, a woman doing yoga on the observation deck.

Sometime in the darkness of early morning in early winter, I woke up before the rest of the house and rearranged the words of my play for fifteen minutes. I did it again the next day. And the next. And then something cool happened. It was three in the morning, and there was a sentence in my head. The new normal is a window between our bedrooms. And another sentence. It’s peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and laundry. It’s feeling homeless even though I have a place to live. I followed the sentence to my laptop and wrote for thirty minutes.

Whatever the darkness, whatever the disappointment or fear, writing always leads to light.

Writing leads to light.



I am here again. Think I’m gonna stay awhile.







Published in: on January 16, 2014 at 12:29 pm  Comments (2)  
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