We should all be as simple as a dog, shouldn’t we.   But we’re not.

To feel alive in this world.   I remember in the arrogance of youth I thought if I have to take pills to stay alive… well now, I do.   And my sense of belonging is questionable.   Me and Spirit, just us, it feels
like all the real that is.   But then, thoughts move like tides.
        Feelings, to the Moon and back.
        And yea, it’s the ocean we are in.

something like being blunt

I write because what else engaging is there to do with a pen in my hand.
I write because empty spaces keep finding their way to my desk. I write because those spaces aren’t empty. Yes, I write to get them outside of me.
I write to make them go away. I write because that seems like a good idea.
I write because I have no other good ideas. I write because the Earth, she
is spinning beneath my feet. I write to keep my balance standing here.
I write because my mother, she is gone.

I write because we are in the ocean, and she is big. I write because she is a woman. I write because I hope she will notice me. I write because her hand is in the air and she is waving to me. I write because she might just be god.

I write because I’m afraid. I write because I am not afraid.

I write because I can’t make up my mind. I write because I love the taste of language on my tongue. I write because I want to witness the world in person. I write because I want your company. I write because I want sweetness into your life. I write because your face keeps filling me with words. I write for beauty’s sake. I write because I never know how it will end when I begin. I write because the world is not a mystery. I write because we were always meant to see, to understand. I write because this is a blessing.
I write because my hand moves through words like through water. I write because feelings remake themselves when I do.

I write because the truth is uncomfortable. I write because I want to say what’s so. I write because I lie. I write because words are spider webs. I write because it never gets better than this. I write because I’m afraid this is as good as it gets. I write to make opportunity. I write because it isn’t yet all lost. I write because of friends I have lost. I write wanting me to be enough. I write because the mountains weren’t always mountains. I write because we get bigger. I write because we get smaller. I write because I’d rather write than go fishing.

I write because I forget.

I write because every day is like a bookend, but there’s only one. I write as an act of faith. I write to discover. I write to remember. I write to forget. I write to ease the pain. I write as an answer to death. I write what passion says. I write to pray. I write to meditate. I write to listen more better. I write because words sometimes confuse themselves. I write because I believe in language.

I write to be playful like a child in a pile of leaves. I write because of the Moon. I write like a knife because it is dangerous. I write like a knife because it is surrendering. I write as ritual. I write to walk away from hate. I write to dream. I write to stay awake. I write to the kindness of heart I have abused. I write to forgive myself. I write to loosen knots. I write accidentally. I write when I am wrong, especially when I am wrong. I write even when it doesn’t matter, which it always is.

I write to appreciate my life with you. I write to see heaven in front of me. I write that you might also see. I write to make small history. I write to make solitude not being alone. I write to remember. I write to let go. I write to speak for the birds, the plants. I write to the rain. I write to the Moon when my eyes are closed. I write to remember breathing is a choice. I write to discover meaning. I write to look beneath the leaves. I write because I am filled with stars. I write because I am broken.

I write because this is how I cook. I write because this is how I eat. I write because a fork and spoon. I write to make a plate. I write to fill a cup, to fill a bowl. I write because this is how I sleep, this is how I walk, this is how I stoop to drink from the well. I write because this is why I love.
       I write because this is how I love.

I write because of the middle of night. I write because it is how I answer doubt. I write because I breathe. I write because blood, because heart. I write because it is a glorious waste of time. I write because of hands and arms, and because of color. I write because of chocolate. I write because of spiders and their webs. I write because ants get into the sugar bowl. I write because I don’t like wearing shoes so much. I write because I like the sound it makes inside my head.   I write because Spirit asked me to.

I write because words are threads.
 
          Why do you write?
I want to acknowledge and thank the better graces of Terry Tempest Williams who opened this gate and asked who else was willing to join her curiosity.   A response, Answers you see, they are implied in the question,
in the process itself, like using an abacus.
 
 
The two photographs are of the country hills around my old California home.
Oak and scrub and grass (all dry summer).   Very typical.   That was home for decades, and it still looks like “home” to me.

And a Manzanita summer scent, unmistakable.

REVISED.   stanza 10 added, new.   10.22.2022