If you do any sort of journaling or writing, it can be a really interesting exercise to go back and read your own words from years ago. What do they have to show the person you are today? I’ve been doing that a lot lately—writing about different types of loss has been a theme in my work for the past several years, so when I can allow myself to read that old work without judgement and let it speak to who I am today, it helps.
It's strange to look back
over your own work
and see the lessons a past version of yourself
has for who you are now.
You might see history repeating itself
for better or worse
or new possibilities
filtering in between the lines,
wisdom that found you then
reaching through time to lift you up now.
A reading from Slouching Toward Radiance:
In my Writing the Wild course, February has a water theme. We’ve been observing water and noticing what it has to say in this winter season. Stories are everywhere when we make a point to notice. What story does the water in your life have to share?
I see stories in puddles dotting the lake ice
that’s trying to hold on—lake ice that’s
not quite ready to acquiesce to warmth’s transition.
Or maybe it’s just me that’s not ready,
during a winter that never really was, a winter
of unwanted flame and feelings of being cast aside, a winter
that held too much of some things and not enough of others.
Those stories dotting the lake
tell tales of letting go, of reflection,
of seeing beauty existing alongside lament.
Those stories contain truth, the kind of truth
you have to allow in, & be patient enough to uncover.
I see stories in puddles dotting the lake ice—
stories that reach across the unwanted
through ripples of winter’s warmth
to offer love through loss.
And that’s just in my personal sphere, of course. There is loss of great scale happening in Gaza, and in Sudan, and in so many places torn apart by war and ongoing violence. I wrote the sentence ‘puddles of loss are everywhere’ for a chapter in Collisions of Earth and Sky, and that remains true today. There is much to grieve. It can be hard to find words.
In the aftermath of loss
it’s hard to find words, some days.
What is there to say that would make things better?
What happened, happened. No words can undo that, and no words can fix it.
This could be reason for despair (and it’s fair to rage and grieve) or
this could be reason to look beyond words
deeply into yet unexplored ways
of interacting with what isn’t wanted.
In the aftermath of loss
it’s hard to find words—so what is there to find outside
the confines of language spoken or signed?
Language felt, like a cold wind you don’t welcome,
but feel fully anyway, contrast waking you up in new ways.
Language tasted, like a kumquat bursting on your tongue,
startling sour followed by a sweetness only reached by piercing skin.1
Language seen, like a ray of light streaming in from so far away
it’s barely reached you. But it has reached you, even now,
in the aftermath of loss.
Ceasefire now.2
New offering:
As an off-shoot of the Book Writing Lab we just held via Writing the Wild, I’m offering 1:1 book coaching for anyone who would like to have a conversation about a project you’re working on, or are thinking of working on, or feel stuck within. Writing can feel solitary, but it doesn’t have to be—getting a bit of additional support can help. We’ll talk about what you want to talk about, set some goals if you’d like, and brainstorm ways to keep your writing practice feeling like you want it to feel. Please send me an email at heidicbarr@gmail.com to inquire and schedule.
Rates are $100.00 for a 30 minute session; $150.00 for a full hour.
If you’ve never had a kumquat, it’s a tiny citrus fruit that is really sour on the inside, but has a sweet (edible) skin. Nature’s sour patch kid.
I trust the work of Together Rising, so if you’re inclined, 100% of donations received go toward urgent relief and food to the people of Gaza.