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Dear Writing Practice,

I am wearing you out? I’m really relying on you heavily lately. It seems I am leaning on you more and more. I hope it’s not all too much. I know we all need a break now and again. I am wondering if you need a break from me.

I know I’m pretty intense. What do you do when I am not with you? Do you take walks in nature? Do you just listen to your own silence? Do you listen to music to relax? Or do you, somehow, just keep writing me, as if I were a piece of fiction, and you are the author?

Well, I guess before I get deeper into speculation, the first thing to do of course is to offer gratitude. Especially, since I’ve known for so long that you needed to be part of my life. And then, for a long time,
I un-knowed that. Hmm. Well, I guess regrets aren’t the best way to explore an ongoing relationship going forward, but I hope you can forgive me.

I thought I needed to silence us both to make my way through this wicked world. I might have done better by both of us by keeping your counsel through all my dark and deeply suffering times. But I didn’t want to hear any more whining through your pages, and god forbid, surely no screaming. I didn’t want to make you suffer. It was enough to know I was suffering with duct tape over my lips.

I hope you can forgive me because I did not know that all that writing in silence, alone, couldn’t help but end up with some wringing of hands and chattering of teeth. I didn’t know I needed community to provide a safe space big enough where writing could go into he emptiness of space, release itself, and through some kind of magic that exists in all the empty space it went into, there would be healing. Who da thought? Space itself is the healer. It makes sense in a way. Humans overwhelmed by noise need silence. Words running together need the space between them, and above and below the lines, and even enough space between the letters. Magnificent, isn’t it, how we can maintain a uniform space between letters without even thinking about it? There are so many miracles of writing, and of course, its mate, reading.

Well, here we are, you and I, making up for lost time. And I guess that is a bit o f an answer. You seem quite willing to go along for all these marathon rides we are rolling into, because making up for lost time is definitely some big kind of forgiveness.

I don’t fool myself, of course. I know that what is being written now would be so different . Different had what all that was written before had been better tended to, kept up, organized, and given a prominent place in the home. Sometimes mistakes have a way of snowballing, and we find ourselves in an avalanche. Yea, maybe we started that roll — nevertheless we didn’t ask for all this universe of other snow that was a follow on
fell-field.

Best to pop out of the drift, and give holy thanks hallelujah that you and I not only survived but found a place where we can write at great length — write to, write from, write for.

This beyond is not the beyond that we expected, is it? We thought that just through writing out all the reasons, reality would sort itself after our fashion. But that’s the big lesson What’s to come, and even, what has happened, is completely different than what we expect to find. And that is the miracle of writing, isn’t it? Oh you, my always and every time very best friend, thank you for being here to answer that question. Who else would? Who else could? You are singular in possible conception. Until of course, we come up with more. You are the gift of imagination embodied. Who could ask for more?

Who knows what treasures and gifts are yet to arrive on these now as yet blank pages?

Blank pages we promise to fill, with every living moment, breath by breath stroke by stroke.

You are my practice. You are my realization. I bow to you.

And your reply, ever so guileless and clear eyed is simple: Carry on. Together.