Sunrise Swim

It was work then too. Dragging my body out of the house; before dawn and walking to the beach. Constant doubt completely obliterating any sense of peace I could have had while making my way down half gravel roads in the dark, among mosques and empty lots.

The ocean is a different beast from morning to night. One wouldn’t witness those same swells at any other time of day. Massive, rolling, seemingly slow yet powerful, unstoppable waves. They’d come in steady, like a metronome; one that would only lose it’s beat, one moment at a time, as the day progressed.





The sunrise swim is a gnawing addiction. I rarely give in but it’s all I think about.

These days I feel like a bandit, when I wake in darkness and creep out of my home. Leaving my husband wrapped in our warm and tangled sheets, my child must hear my footsteps.
I weave through the booby traps of toys, plants, musical instruments,
unfinished laundry, dishes, stacks of books.

The sea here is a lake, waves roll in like minnows. They make the sweetest sound as they lap up on the city shore. The horizon is the same though, apparently endless and full of rising light.

I went to a poetry workshop this weekend. Cracked me back open. I've spent quite awhile in a bit of a writing rut and was pleased as punch when the whole class expressed jealousy and awe when I told them I've been writing the same poems over and over for the last five years because "I love the act of writing and nothing else has come up".

I do find that I have the desire to write in a disproportionate amount to the actual time I spend writing. Same with books. I love them, look at them, buy them, reorganize them, and often fall asleep after one page of reading. Is this wrong? Is this bad? Do I suck?

I am currently working through a habit I have that can no longer be ignored. Over-committing, over-scheduling, over-promising and in general over-filling my plate so that there is not only no space to see whatever beautiful pattern might be on the plate itself, but things are piled on top of one another so there is no way to even assess what the fuck is even on my plate anymore.
 
I feel that I should work harder and be a better poet, write more, read more. In fact, reading more poems would probably make me a better poet! Just because I have cleared time for some reading and writing though, does not mean I need to fill my plate right back to the edges again.

So, hello again! I am back on my blog, writing less than I think I should :)