December 2023 Soul Notes
Photo by The Poetry Pharmacy
I was mid-way through writing Soul Notes when I arrived at my Tuesday morning co-writing group recently. When I heard the writing prompt for our session, Lucille Clifton's poem above, I knew that it was destined for the final Soul Notes of the year, and that the text in progress belongs in the new year.
Jackee Holder, who runs the group with Fiona Parashar, invited us to jump off the poem and to reflect on the promises we made to ourselves about our writing this year with the following questions:
What time did you dedicate to your writing this year?
Where and when did you push it aside?
Where did you protect and nourish it?
How do you intend to show up for your writing in 2024?
What commitments will you make to your writing going forward?
Something happens in me when I hear poetry, something that allows me to answer these questions from a deeper, more knowing place. A poem opens a portal to an honesty with myself that bypasses the usual, more conditioned response. It evokes images and metaphor which resonate throughout my whole body rather than leaving my poor overworked head to do all the work.
Marion Woodman speaks with such affection and humour about the power of metaphor. She was an English teacher before she was a Jungian analyst and she knew Shakespeare by heart. In one of her talks, she asks her audience, why does Shakespeare write: “Out, out, brief candle…” when Macbeth is speaking of his wife's death? Why doesn't he just say “she died”, keep it simple and say it how it is?
Her answer is that the metaphor lands in our bodies and there is an alchemy…..we see the image of the candle…we see the light disappear….we feel the darkness descend and the warmth evaporate. We immerse in the cold dark place where Macbeth finds himself in these four words. That's what poetry does for me. I feel deep into the layers of myself as I read, and then my own words flow through, reflective of this felt experience. But this only happens if I slow down and allow my body to soften so that the poetry may enter and weave its magic. A brisk and perfunctory read, hoping to glean the meaning, doesn't do it. The sorcery bounces off me like a spell repelled. I have to offer a piece of myself to the poetry to let it do its work.
David Whyte writes of poetry as "the art of overhearing ourselves say things from which it is impossible to retreat." It is a way of communicating against which we have no defence; a way of really getting to know our inner selves.
Reflecting on my writing, the image that came to mind was a wrestling match. Not the most romantic of images but there you have it. You don't get to choose the imagery. You just have to go with it. And as I go with it, I perceive that it's not a wrestle, it's a dance. Sometimes flowing and elegant; sometimes jerky, disrupted, difficult to understand; other times still and tranquil with just a motion of a limb.
Round 1 of the year and I committed to my reading and my writing (the two inextricably linked). I carved out space in my diary through the year to travel and to write. I promised myself a writing retreat and some dedicated time to sit and stare at the page. Some bold promises. I sat by the Atlantic Ocean in Ireland and wrote poetry to the crashing waves. I wandered the beaches and streets of Portugal and toyed with memoir writing. I lasted until April. I sat in a novel writing course at the Faber Academy and felt daunted by the prospect of endless pages. I booked a couple of weekends away and then cancelled them. I flicked longingly through the writing retreat brochures and could never find quite the “right time”. I was getting bruised in these rounds. Not living up to some idealised expectation I had of myself as someone taking my writing seriously.
Fast forward to a couple of invitations to write articles, which I did….then an invitation to share a short story out loud, which I did….and felt the joy of sharing words with others. And the underlying practice of journaling every single day this year. Then Soul Notes – my consistent practice of creating this newsletter. What I realise is that it's often not about the bold promises we make to ourselves, but more the daily showing up. The commitment that feels more of a grind; that some days looks like we're going through the motions, when really what we're doing is reminding ourselves of what is truly important and meaningful. If I don't journal, I feel scattered. If I spend even just a few moments at the page, then my soul is satisfied. She knows I care even if I'm a bit frazzled. A bit like a loving relationship where life is busy and there's little time for each other but you still make space for some moment of intimacy. A touch that says I'm here.
Our poet writes that
“it will be hard to let go
of what I said to myself
about myself”
However, I find that the more that I write, the easier it is to let go of what I say to myself at any stage. Because in the writing, I allow myself to fully BE with the experience so that it may be with me and move through me. Then I can move on to whatever else awaits. That's the gift from my writing this year. It's not about the perfected pieces. It's about what it unfreezes and allows in me. Writing as a part of me.
And that's what I am loving about this year. I'm making space for all the versions rather than chasing down a singular “perfect” version that suits a particular narrative I might have about myself; about writing; about others reading my writing. Making space for the multiplicity of my selves. Appreciating the flow from one idea to another. Feeling the disconnect and then allowing for a thread of connection to emerge, showing me pathways that are unfamiliar, that cross boundaries. Resisting the urge to tidy everything up; to explain clearly; to order the chaos; to hurry the process. Feeling myself like a garden where soil is composting, seeds have been planted, new shoots are sprouting, flowers are blooming, mature plants are dying off and everything has its own season. Learning to find beauty and solace in it all. This is a different way of experiencing myself and the world and I like it. A lot.
So a wrestle, a dance, a spell, a garden, a journey. A multitude of metaphors. All of which have their place and their home in me. All of which I am loving.
And now over to you….what aspect of your life this year would you like to reflect on in light of this poem and these questions? What other poems/stories/lines have inspired you to reflect on what you are loving and leaving this year? What other questions are wanting to be considered in your atmosphere?
Wishing you space inside and out, to sit with all of this as we cross the threshold from the dark into the light on this precious day in this wintry season.
With love and warmest wishes for the holidays,
