I walked north this morning under a sky of rippling clouds. I woke anxiously into Monday, overtired from a weekend of fun, non-stop activity with friends, and busy every moment. Anxious because I didn’t want to skip my Monday night writing group, but I had no poem, and only the day. I didn’t want to write under pressure and without a clear idea or inspiration. The anxiety surprised me. Where was the pressure I was feeling coming from? I’m not required by anyone to attend my group tonight. Except, it’s for me. It’s what I want on a Monday. I want to have writing to develop and I want to be helpful to the others who bring their work. On the walk I decide. I will go. I will try to write something and go. I am glad I’ve walked north, into privacy, and even a little seclusion in among the broken, windswept bark-stripped trees. I am trying to find a poem in the idea of a stopped clock. It’s all I have. As I step over a tree limb, I am stepping over a hand painted sign: “Island Time.” I pick up a stick and draw a large circle for a clock in the sand. Then, I draw the clock’s numbered face. Then, I step into my clock. Facing the sea, I stand and close my eyes, move my hands. A memory comes from inside the clock, and then another. This is a poem about mothers and daughters.
At home, I close my door and sit and write until I make a draft of what is good enough for now.
Tonight, in my group, I get exactly the help I need to see all that is good in it and how I will make it even better.
