“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.
Seeking justice.

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.
And worry.
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.