Even though there’s still one more full day here to go, in no small way it’s been coming to this: Talking Gourds, the monthly Telluride poetry gathering. As I said, yesterday, I specifically planned this stay to include Talking Gourds. Since I am a writer, and one who is still getting used to the fact that he’s a poet, reading aloud a poem I’ve crafted to a group of others who have done the same, is a good and necessary thing on several levels.
But, I’m too close to the end of the day’s tale. Let me start again, closer to the beginning.
Anyone who knows me even a little, or has read pretty much any of these blogposts, knows I struggle with my writing. I create a fair bit of drama over whether or not to continue pursuing it. The big, real reason for my seven days here, as I mentioned in an earlier post, is to finally, with regards to my writing, either shit or get off the pot.
So I came here looking for clarity, certainty. However, after Monday’s conversation with Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, I head-butted a truth I’ve been fighting against in ignorance since, I guess, Day One: An absolute, unshakeable certainty is impossible. As Frederick Buechner has said, “If there’s room for me, then there’s room for doubt.” So, here I was. I’d come to Rosemerry for insight, and I’d gotten it—only it seemed to be exactly the opposite of the insight I was looking for. I was rattled. Yeah, you could say that.
Actually, though, and perhaps oddly, I was comforted and settled by this whack upside my expectations. Whether I was to be a writer wasn’t up to things being certain and clearly so; instead, it was up to my deciding so. In no small intangible way, I’d placed the responsibility onto someone/something else’s shoulders. Removed it from my control. I was waiting for the decision to be made for me. (No wonder I was so frustrated and twisted in knots.) Nothing would ever be certain; but I could certainly make a decision and act on it.
Now each month’s Talking Gourds has a theme. This month’s was, fear. I had a poem nearly finished by the time Rosemerry and I met, Monday. Of course, it came up in our conversation; and out of that conversation, the poem was set on a different trajectory. I worked on it some, that Monday, and even got it completed enough, I felt. However, when I’d gotten into bed and the lights were out, inspiration arrived for another poem. Fortunately, I had enough wits and wisdom to turn the light back on long enough to pen this inspiration to the page before heading back to sleep. Come morning, I began working on this new poem, spending most of the day bringing it into the light, onto the page.
When I’d finished reading it, last evening, there was that hush that confirmed what I knew: I’d been gifted with a poem that struck paydirt. Further, just so the Universe could drive its point home a little firmer, at the end of the meeting, a woman came up to me, asking me to mail her a copy of my poem, because it’d struck her so.
Ah, oh, one more thing: This was the moon as we walked our way back to our cars, our homes, our hotel room(s).
There’s more to this story than I’m telling. Both in regards to this day, and this whole time here so far. A great number of things are clicking into interesting places. Toggling together in unexpected ways. And there’s still all of today ahead of me yet.