Key for the garden door
Writing great volumes of web content seems to have started a trickle of poetry writing. Come to think of it, my first huge wave of poetry hit in 1994, when I was working as a media relations writer for World Vision Canada. Then, during a period of three years in which I descended into terrible depression, accepted my sexual orientation, left my job, marriage and religion, and started life over again from scratch, I wrote some 500 poems. I've always considered that volume of poetry was a form of self-preservation: a gift of beauty to fend off suicide until I reached solid ground again. Poetry has never come so easily as when I needed it desperately.
But now I wonder whether the initial trigger wasn't writing all those tedious letters and press releases. I had to think constantly about meaning and how to express it concisely. Like a key it opened a tiny Wonderland door to a garden of a different language for things intangible and inexpressible. I still believe it saved my life, however I'd like to be able to explore that language further while I'm happy. Maybe I have found another way to reach the garden.After a while she remembered that she still held the pieces of mushroom in her hands, and she set to work very carefully, nibbling first at one and then at the other, and growing sometimes taller and sometimes shorter, until she had succeeded in bringing herself down to her usual height.
Find balance. Be yourself.