I'm having an emotional week. It feels like I've been crying for days. I don't like crying in front of people, let alone admitting to doing so on a public blog, but I've been trying to push myself to sit with my vulnerability, so there's a start.

I'm not saying this is a bad thing. I certainly needed a release. And this is certainly the time for it -- add miscommunications, car troubles and other frustrations to three days of intensive training about the issues surrounding child sexual abuse, and I really have no choice but to let the tears fall. I think I can allow myself this one -- there's no harm in needing a good cry, and getting a great one instead.

Part of forgiving myself for being so full of emotions involves understanding why I'm crying and what it's doing for me. This kind of reflection can build up more emotion, but it's building in the best way. I'm checking in with my body about where the tension is, where it's coming from, and how my crying is helping me let it go.

I've been doing the same thing with running, another way to release. Not always -- sometimes I run just to run, and I feel release then, too, but I also feel a sort of emptiness in wondering what it was, exactly, that I lost. On the other hand, there are times when I run with an awareness of my body, of the way each muscle flexes and stretches, of what feels good and what feels hard and what feels nothing at all, as my skin pours sweat, as if my body's weeping.

For me, like crying and running, writing can be a release. This is nothing new, of course. Writing has been used to express our feelings ever since the world's first angsty teenagers created paper upon which to spill their tears. But I'm wondering what it would look like to be more intentional about it, in the same way that I get in touch with my body when I'm running.

I center my body and mind, remembering that I am in my body, feeling the connection from the roots at my feet to the threads of my fingers. I think of what's brought me here. Thinking back to the tension of the day, and then back further, to the tension building in my life, and then back further still, to the tension in my communities and my environment, and further still, to those who have come before me, to the history stirring in the ground below me... and then?

Release.

Ah, the life of a writer.

Mornings spent listening to the masters of craft spread their words of wisdom, putting the life you've dreamed of within your grasp. Afternoon workshops, finding that one of the best ways to learn and grow is to grow in community. Evenings, drinking wine and listening to the masters read their breath-taking work. Nights connecting with those who are as passionate about the written word as you. And early mornings - real early mornings - curled up with a notebook, furiously scribbling the ideas that have roused you from sleep after the previous day's inspiration.

A girl could forget this is some fantasy writing camp, and not really everyday life.

Of course now, more than halfway through my first Pacific University residency (already?), I'm trying to figure out how to continue as much of this life as possible once I return home. Some of what I've heard has been helpful in the practical sense. Marvin Bell gave a talk titled "How to be a Writer Every Day," calling us to be writers by setting and meeting writing challenges, each and every day. Today's talk was an interview, Heather Sappenfield leading a discussion with Bonnie Jo Campbell about how even someone who hears early in her career that she is "everything wrong with writing today" can go on to find her voice as a writer, and become a very successful one at that.

Mostly, though, I know that I'll continue life as a writer not simply because I'll have advice to follow or assignments to turn in, but because this experience is reminding me of how I long to write, and to write better each day. For me, growing as a writer means growing as a person, because for me, writing is a daily reminder of my reason for being.

It's all so easy to remember in the moment, of course, and I can only hope that after this experience is over, I won't forget the invaluable lessons I've learned here. I get the feeling, though, that even if my conscious mind forgets, my writing reflexes will always remember. So long as I continue to be a writer every day.

I wrote this short piece of fiction this morning, mostly to try to motivate myself when I was feeling weary.

            I woke to my words rolling from the mouth of a stranger. I opened my eyes, and through the blades of grass beside my face I watched him standing over me. My purple notebook was in one of his hands, his thick fingers covering the smudges I’d left over time with my own hands. His other hand was gesturing wildly as he read.

from the moment we were born we knew we belonged on this earth/we breathed the air though nobody showed us how/filled our lungs with it and raised our clenched fists into the sky above us/knowing we can reach for more, screaming like we were born to be heard,

            “Stop that,” I said. “That’s mine, you have no right to read it.”

            The man paused, and I thought he’d stop, but he only flipped his fingers through more pages and began to read again.

know your tears aren’t for nothing/let them fall to the earth/to water the seeds/that will grow the roots/to anchor the trees/that cannot be moved./know that you, too,/cannot be moved.

            I sat up. At this angle, the world felt new, like I was trying to orient myself to the gravity pulls of an alien planet. But I had enough balance to reach up and snatch my notebook back. So I did. I pulled my knees to my chest, my words tucked into the folds of my body.

            “Why aren’t you celebrating?” the man asked, gesturing toward the group of people waving flags and howling with glee. “You know that motherfucker’s dead, right?”

            I sighed.

          “I’m tired,” I said.

          Now he gestured toward my notebook, and I tightened my hold on it.

         “Then why aren’t you writing about it?”

         “I’m resting,” I told him.

         I rubbed my eyes, hoping he’d be gone when I opened them, so I could sleep again. Instead, I heard his voice once more. More of my words.

there never were words for this…

            In an instant, I was standing, my face so close to his that I could smell the breath of his pores. He smelled salty as the sea.

            “Where did you get that?” I said. “That’s not even in this notebook. Nobody’s supposed to read that.”

            The man smiled, stepped back with a sheepish look like he knew he’d taken one step too far. I looked him up and down, noticed for the first time that he looked nothing like the people who were out celebrating. He was barefoot, and dirty, his skin stained with a red, earthy tinge. He carried nothing, but looked somehow like he’d been traveling.

            “You’re right,” he said. “Nobody’s supposed to read it yet, anyway.”

            He gazed beyond my head, as if he was looking to see where he’d go next. Or where I’d been before.

            “Rest well, weary poet,” he said. “But don’t lose your words. You’ll need them now, more than ever before.”

            As I watched him walk away, his feet shuffling through the growing grass, that poem bloomed in my mind. The one I’d been putting together in my head, but resisting the urge to write down.

there never were words for this… the poem began. I settled back down into the grass, and began to write the rest of the words.

This morning, instead of my usual freewrite, I’m getting my creative juices flowing in a different way by doing some visual art. I’m not great at drawing, it’s never something I’d show to anyone else, but I love to do it. It’s just another way to exercise those creative muscles that ache if I don’t use them, and lately I’ve been reading a lot of stories like this NPR article, about how dabbling in other arts can help with writer’s block.

This has always been true for me. Though lately writer’s block has been the opposite of my problem (writer’s diarrhea is more like it), when I find myself blocked sometimes any other art than writing helps, whether that means drawing or playing the keyboard or singing (in the shower or in my room – that’s another of those “talents” of mine I’d never subject other people to…).

Is this true for you? Do you have a main “art” you focus on, until you’re blocked enough to turn to the others? Artists can support each other in these things too, and I’d love to hear from anyone with experience from outside of the writing world.

Best wishes for you in finding your art today, in whatever form it takes.