it's a good thing

closed windows

I must admit that I am glad National Poetry Month is over. I love it generally speaking, yet I hated it this year.

To write poetry—true poetry from my heart—when I wasn't feeling ready was truly the challenge. It wasn't the every day for thirty days part; it was the write about things you hope and wish for and don't like and don't want. Writing so much truth takes a lot of pondering and choosing, and it was so hard for me.

As I was thinking about what to even slice about today, I wanted to stop myself. I have cried so much in this space. I don't want that anymore, but you know, it just keeps on flowing. People talk about how it matters which garden you tend—gratitude or ingratitude—joy or sadness—that determines what you see around you. And I believe it. However, I do know that dandelions and Russian thistle like to take over no matter what you do. So I can tend my joy garden every day with all my heart, might, mind, and strength, but it won't keep away the invasion of the weeds on rainy days/weeks. That's just the facts. But I don't give up, and I guess that's the true positive in all this and maybe a small miracle.

Another thing, every time I talk about stopping writing the truth, I get an absolute tidal wave of support. And I thought about that too as I was pondering what to slice about today. It encouraged me actually. It made me want to write something happier than how I see things today. That's why I wanted to tell you about my gratitude, even if it's about being grateful for poetry writing being over for awhile.

I hadn't written anything substantial as far as poetry goes for a few months or so, as I explained before this past month's writing challenge began, making it a real feat. I'm truly amazed that I didn't give up because there were a couple of days in there (actually like three or four) when I almost didn't write anything. The sense of abandonment and isolation that I have pricking at my heels all the time kept demanding to be heard. It kept spilling onto the page. And I just hate that. It's all normal feelings. So many justifications for all of it, so I know I'm not some insane person or something. But it just feels bad.

All of this said, I think it's like a miracle to not be writing poetry today. It feels like a breath of less toxic air. I am not sure if/when I will write more poetry. My heart just hurts, and I don't know if I can write about it like that anymore. I guess we shall see. Right?