Several years ago, while still in graduate school, I went on a writer's retreat with my class. It was exactly this time of year at an old convent near South Bend, Indiana. On a lake, surrounded by trees with golden leaves, this place was perfect for reflection. For several hours each afternoon, we all were required to find a spot outside on the grounds to free write.
In the beginning, I felt so confined by the task that I usually didn't write anything. I sat on the glider by the lake, watching the water ripple or the leaves fall. But one afternoon, whatever previously felt daunting about a free write fell away. I wrote this:
The swing creaks in rhythm with a chirping from an unknown bug a few feet away. Wild flowers, thistles, and grasses sway with me in the wind. The lake, in constant motion, carries fallen leaves.
I hear birds communicating to each other in trees. I feel the heat of the sun on my skin. I focus on my hand--dry, weathered, older than I give myself credit for. I imagine the pores of my skin opening and closing, taking in life at every second like the gills of the fish in the lake.
I lean my head back to see sky. I close my eyes. I pause to record the images. The boundries between earth and sky and water blur. What if I could melt into nature? What if that which lies silent and cluttered within me could find the motion to carry me down my path?
Today, as I'm walking to my mailbox or walking up to meet Adrienne at her bus stop, I think of this essay. I think of how the trees around the neighborhood remind me of the convent turned writing retreat center and that day that I finally broke through my writer's block.
At some point in the same essay, I wrote this:
In January, when the words will not come, I will need an image.
And isn't this an awesome one?
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