Why Write? Paying Homage to Northern Lights aka Marry Your Dreams in 2012
Sometimes I miss a certain place, like the aspen draw on the ranch in Wyoming where Thimbleberries grow thick by July, and where snow gathers by October, staying until May. Sometimes I miss a person, like the young Greek girl Antigone whom I barely knew, but knew well enough to lie on a hill near the Acropolis, beneath the light of a full moon counting the stars as they came out. “Ena Dio Tria Tessera,” she taught me, pointing at the sky. “One Two Three Four,” I echoed back.
Today, I am missing a magazine, and the vision that it brought to the world before publication ceased. Northern Lights, published by Deborah Clow O’Connor. "What does it mean to lose Northern Lights?" asked Charles Finn. "It is like asking what it means to lose a star from its place in the sky." WHY WRITE? asks The Center section of the Summer 1998 issue. The answers of seven writers were printed, including essays by Jane Hirschfield, Ellen Meloy, and C.L. Rawlins. But the piece that I saved, that draws my centered attention even now, was by Terry Tempest Williams. Dearest Deb, Terry begins…
I was dreaming about Moab, Brooke and I walking around the block just before dawn. I threw a red silk scarf around my shoulders and then I began reciting why I write: I write to make peace with the things I cannot control. I write to create a red fabric in a world that often appears black and white. I write to discover. I write to uncover. I write to meet my ghosts. I write to begin a dialogue. I write to imagine things differently and in imagining perhaps the world will change. I write to honor beauty. I write to correspond with my friends. I write as a daily act of improvisation. I write because it creates my composure. I write against power and for democracy. I write myself out of my nightmares and into my dreams… I write because it is dangerous, a bloody risk, like love, to form the words, to say the words, to touch the source, to be touched, to reveal how vulnerable we are, how transient. I write as though I am whispering in the ear of the one I love…
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| Lunar Eclipse 12/10/11 |
Terry's entire letter celebrates writing. Yet how different writing in this digital age feels, how easy to lose hope in the murky skies of this new electronic era. Yet don't we still write for the same reasons, even though it is a bloody risk? And don't we still seek the eyes and ears of the ones we love? Like painters and musicians and sculptors, our art celebrates life. Deb O'Connor, though no longer publishing a magazine, paints and explores the celestial world as a gifted astrologer and visual artist. "Who says the Universe doesn't have a sublime sense of humor," she begins her November 24, 2011 column. "A new and eclipsed moon the same day that Mercury goes backwards?"
It helps to have a sense of humor when we don't know if our writing is moving forward, or slipping backwards. Sometimes it helps to count to 4 and remember why we write. Why do you write? If you're in the mood to share, I would love to know. Shout it out to the world, if you want. Declare your intentions as if 2012 will be the year that you marry your dreams. Then make it so.
Learn more about astrologer Deb O'Connor's paintings and services.
Contact Page for Complete Copy of Terry's Letter to Deb.
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Comments
I enjoyed your latest piece in your blog. Thank you for continuing to open my eyes to the beauties around me. Your writing is inspiring.
Carol
Blog: http://www.straightspouseconnection.com
Web site: http://www.carolgrever.com
I remember Northern Lights very fondly too--was heartbroken when it ended. But it's good to learn what Deb is up to and to see samples of her amazing paintings at her website. Your and TTW's words were utterly inspiring.
Chris
over your webpage.
Carol
I met you a few years ago at the Southwest Women Writers' Conference in Santa Fe, NM. You talked to us then aboutcollecting symbols of our creative spirits that could help us express our creative voices. You passed around feathers, rocks, etc. that you had accumulated on your walks in the wild, and you talked about how they 'called to your creative soul.' I returned home inspired, longing to express Nature's truths in my writing.
Now, as I write this response, I have in front of me two red hawk tail feathers, gifts from the hunter that soars above; a blue heron wing feather, a gift from the one who is a 'stick in the mud;' and two white goose feathers, from the gander that died at the edge of the frog pond protecting his mate from the jowls of the predator coyote. Thanks to your literary inspiration, these feathers have become my treasured companions as well as my constant source of introspection and retrospection.
Meanwhile, nestled on the table beneath my vase of feathers are my rocks...River rocks, imprinted with the ancient indentations of hand-hewn tools; Mountain rocks, chunks of obsidian waiting to be polished into war-worthy arrow heads; and sparkling Ocean rocks, plucked from a Pacific shore, boasting clusters of iridescent blood and bones solidified by crystalline salt. These are my treasures--more precious to my mind than any Imperial gems.
I share these thoughts with you because I want you to know that I share your grief. I, too, have lost treasured pets and cherished loved ones--in their prime, before their time. It hurts! Sometimes it hurts so much we cannot speak or write about it for fear of opening a wound so deep there would be no healing. I am still in that place--that space--of darkness. Although I stroke the feathers and caress the rocks, I am left wondering, "WHY?" Then I read your blog: "SOURCING OUR STRENGTH," and your call to be "Awake In The World." You have given us much to think about, i.e. the difference between dreamstorming and brainstorming, and the challenge facing each of as we struggle to get in touch with our emotions.
Thank you, Page, for challenging us to think, reflect, and respond. For me, it is still a daily struggle, but you have given me a vision of hope on the horizon. /cs
Tom Alberti
I write to breathe, to shout to an often-uncaring world that I am here, that I have a voice, even if I was silent for so long. I write to touch the hearts of others, or to share my midnight fears in the hope those fears, once shared, will lessen. I write for those who cannot, although the world may not see that writing. I write for love, for loss, for life. I write to connect, to say I am not alone. I write hoping I will reach higher with each word, and achieve what my soul is stretching for.