“This period of my life is like..”
A True Detective story full of blood and wayward characters.
I am the western cop, trying to wrangle my people. Trying to stop time. Trying to figure out the killers and the troublemakers.
In Eunice Scarfe’s class, “The Writer at Work: Old Words and New,” this morning, we were asked to write from the prompt, or the catalyst: “This period of my life is like…” Here is more of my free write.
This period is a blue period.
A blue egg in a Robin’s egg nest. My nest, my home full of bustling, flitting activity.
This period is brimming with coffee and hilarity.
Did I mention worry?
Worried about everyone’s health and how will I face my own ageing? Is that important?
Frida Kahlo had her birds
Her own comfort. her man. her art. her illness.
I have my people, my worries.
I’m grateful — there it is, popping up like a weed — my gratitude.
I cannot stop journaling until it pops up. This gratitude for people. for places. for New York city. for shelter at this retreat from this United States political storm. I am hiding, nesting.
A bird has its nest.
a bird like me needs to fly. But there is so much to worry about. And there is so much to be grateful for.
Does a bird worry as she flies?
Does a bird have gratitude?
I read part of this — and another essay I started about how the Coudals resemble the Kennedys — to Mary Alice Hostetter who wrote the beautiful Modern Love essay, “Dear Dad: We’ve Been Gay for a Really Long Time.”
I was reminded by Eunice of Natalie Goldberg’s advice, ‘Get your own story straight.
We all have a story.” And we were invited to ‘write so as to stop the breathing of our audience.’
“if you can tell it, you can write it,” Eunice Scarfe said.