telling secrets

my ny best friend and i are trying to do our morning pages, keeping each other accountable. but being homeschoolers, it never stops. if there was a definate departure point, the children walk to the curb and silence (or as silent as ny gets), then perhaps it would be easier. but these are not the lives we are living.

so, we finally sit down yesterday to write, and as soon as her butt hits the ground (she's a floor sitter like me), there is a knock on the door. a chatty visitor sits and talks about not much. i write through the visit. as soon as the chatty visitor leaves, a child returns home and is hungry. the pages were hit with the ink just barely, but then, poof. just like that, gone.

it's not like we sit around all afternoon when we're together doing nothing. i generally keep her company while she feeds various people (she's been feeding my people, which is incredibly kind. i hate to cook, but it's something i must get over).

so, when to fit in the pages?

i started vein of gold, committed to it. have i done it? not to the letter like i "should" but i've kept up with it in my heart. which sounds like i'm trying to get by doing nothing with some shmaltzy excuse, but i'm not really, because the book has helped me process some things i've been needing to process, but i'm not committing those things to paper as yet.

five secrets. that is the second thing i got stuck on.

the first thing was a narrative timeline. what a drag that is. writing about my life, as much as i can remember. this is a recurring theme, but i feel like i write so much about my life, here and in my poetry the point seems kind of lost. but i did make the commitment so i should stick to it, right? should. i hate shoulds.

well, i didn't. i just went around it. (it is what caused me to stall out last time i tried this book).

then i come to five secrets. to quote a line from a fine movie, sense and sensibility, damn the line just escaped my brain, but it is when kate winslet is talking to emma thompson,

we have no secrets, you because you confide in none, i because i keep none.

(or something). i shall have to get that quote right.

anyway, i don't feel so successful at keeping secrets because i'm always writing about my secrets. therefore, i have no secrets. (which reminds me of a piece i wrote some time back where i deliberately said, i have no secrets. but i do, we all do, truth be told.)

or so i thought.

but i've just been liberated from the idea of having to tell my secrets by the big deal poet i workshopped with recently who said,

there is nothing written that says you have to read everything you write.

amen to that. so maybe i can write about my secrets after all.

now, i've spent weeks thinking about secrets. what secrets do i have?

this recent chapter is about shaming. i can't recall ways my artist has been shamed, but i can recall being personally shamed. i've written about some of them. guess i've got to write some more. but this writing your way to healing is a very rough road. and i kind of want only easy paths at this point. but i see that is part of my problem.

i must shake the old girl and make her get up and walk those difficult roads. write about those secrets. and bring to light the remembered shame, so she can find the unremembered shame.

it is a new day, and i feel hope again. spring forces one to acknowledge life. and that is not entirely bad.