Tag Archives: writing

What Makes You Feel Loved?

2016_blueandgolden

Greetings from the studio. <3

Last year was quite an adventure. Everything I dreamt about when I got in touch with my dreams, during my exchange year in Switzerland, so many years ago. Safe here in my sacred art space and studio, painting away.

I also had the privilege to spend art time with many students of core art, holding the space for them to explore their own way of making art in the moment.

But no writing. Not one poem, all year.

By December I felt congested and blurry. I spent most of the Christmas break writing and reconnecting with myself. Poetry helped me find my way back. It hit me today, after all this time spent writing and painting, that what I most need to feel loved, is to spend one on one time with my love. This goes for my relationship to me as well.

Somehow, having spent so many years writing for a reason: for healing; for articles; for connection; for insights – I had missed the most crucial part. Writing, for me, is an act of self-love. It is a very precise way of listening to the moment and describing it, of looking at myself, my life, my emotions with kindness and deep honesty. There is no desired end result, no agenda, no gain. Just the act of reaching out, spending time with the person I am in that moment.

So, I wanted to ask you, in turn:

What makes you feel loved?

How could you give yourself [more of] that, whatever it is, today?

2015_241_yippee

Come Here, Muse of Mine, Writing Is Fun. Promise.

If I shake this lap top

Long enough

Will I find the words I lost?

Are they going to drop out of the keyboard

Land in neat lines and paragraphs

Making visible

That which is making me twitch and turn

Arriving at my own door

To find it shut

The sound of breaking white coffee mugs

mixes with the clear ping of glass shards

Using music to coax my grumpy muse

to cooperate with letters, metaphors and the truth of now.

Audience

Thought book 2013, by MDT.
Thought book 2013, by MDT.

 

I was out to my favorite writing café and the academic bookstore this morning, finally buying the book of poetry by Tomas Tranströmer that I’ve been ogling for months. Coming back to Hakaniemi, I saw these birds perched on a street lamp. They were clearly watching us morning people passing by, discussing whatever it may be that birds discuss about human beings. So I stopped for a while, dug out my thought book, craned my neck and drew some.

What I love about being creatively active, is how awareness opens and I start seeing everything, both in a wider and more focused way. That is the everyday connecting with imagination, bringing vitality in its wake.

The Easy Way

2005_hands
From the thought book 2005, by MDT.

 

It has always been easy for you

you hiss at me.

You are so lucky, wistful sigh,

you have always known

what you want.

 

I, have sat in cafés,

as I do now,

thousands of hours.

Neglecting studies,

going without money,

enduring shame for my deviance

 

asking

asking

asking

 

Reading vociferously

gulping down words

wringing them out again

ripping pages, spitting out my own.

 

Hours, weeks, years

spent in study

working ceaselessy

without a paycheck

in order to understand

me, you, life, reality, creation.

 

poor me, who has always known

poor you, who has never known

 

But ‘easy’

is not a word

that comes to mind.

Bubble of Creation

From the thought book 2006, by MDT.
From the thought book 2006, by MDT.

I feel like I’m trying to fit a truck through my eye
This energy, of the book, is so huge that I am overwhelmed at times, just
trying to connect at it
The story is there, it is all so THERE
and I manage it every now and then.
I guess that is the writer’s life
and the practice of showing up.

I guess that is what I am doing right now
and it is something, more than nothing.

Inside outside in a bubble of creation,
as if I’m in a shuttle,
orbiting the world where other people live.
And writing,
always writing,
calling myself beloved on the earth.

Reality Design Writing Retreat

2003_daybook
From the thought book 2003, by MDT.

There is this play dough aspect

to reality
I find it every Sunday,
when I take off from the family nest,
Leaving my warm lover
our giggling children
In drowsy-land.
Writing retreat busts me loose
from my iron clad beliefs.
Showing soul
playing peek-a-boo, closer than my skin.
Hidden in plain view.
Faith is knowing.
I can trust these trails I have carved out for myself.

 

Best Friends

Writing poetry
is air in my lungs,
after holding my breath
to be the perfect woman.
Poetry stings my eyes and lungs
I see clearly.

Hipocrite is a sticky animal
and best friends with
Perfect Woman.

 

Determination Puts Words on the Page

My spine jumps

with crickets,

morning café au lait in a red cup

with a round lace napkin,

peace.

I used to steal writing time,

now I schedule it.

Writing is a way of breathing!

Yet being my own boss
managing my own time
has changed it.

no time no time no time no time no time to write
no need no need no need no need no need

Bull.

Yet time to write floats behind a barrier of beliefs.

the calling

the road. the road is calling, calling out to me
and the quiet voice inside:
find me. find me.
got to go.
this is, more important, has always
been.

find me
find me

the beat of my feet, running
my night run

find me

the melody in the wind, the rhythm
in the stories I write

find.
me.

sometimes I don’t even dare hear it
only when life is barren, death on my shoulder
I throw my head back,
courage cascading through
eyes of golden

find me.