Tag Archives: trauma af

what’s not there

stencil graffiti of a man contemplating an empty (?) picture frameGood morning on this Monday morning. In front of me are the steady flames of two tall white pillar candles,  two tea candles, and their reflection in the window. I’m ensconced in my writing corner at the end of the kitchen table, trying to convince my body that we’re ready to move into the work of this day. The dreams are still slightly shredded around me — was there a road trip, an overstuffed RV? There were children, teenagers, a young man who got his hair cut short. What had been wild and bushy was now cropped short curls tight to his head, and all the girls in his circle adored the new look. He wasn’t so sure. There were lots of dreams, my subconscious was busy last night.

I want to write this morning about the writer’s grief that my adored writer friend and colleague Renee (check out her blog and work and daily writing prompts and general ferocity) talked about a couple of weeks ago. She said that no one talks about what our writing selves mourn, the writing we haven’t done, all that we haven’t dedicated ourselves to, all the time and words and poems that we’ve lost.

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