Mountain Time

It's 3 am and she is writing on her laptop in the baby's room. The baby is in her bed, next to the boy, next to the daddy, and there is little room for anyone else. But that is not why she is writing on her laptop. If it were sleep or space she were seeking, she'd be on the futon downstairs, or even the floor. When it's sleep she needs, she's not picky. But she's not tired. She's awake with possibility. 

It's 3 am, Pacific Daylight Time, but somewhere in the world it's afternoon. In another city, with other beds and other families, it's 3pm, or thereabouts. She is on another timezone. She is on the wrong side of the world. She should be in Kathmandu right now. She's on Nepalese Mountain Time.

And this is the real reason she's awake. Somewhere in between the layers of sleep, something stirred within her. An itch, an urge, an idea. Something big, but spoken softly. Was it even a voice? Where had it come from? Never mind that, it was clear and strong and it got her out of bed, into the baby's room and onto her laptop where she is now typing. 

She is going to Nepal. She is going to take E with her. She is going to bring her baby boy -- now so much more boy than baby -- to the other side of the world to see what happens there. She will save the pennies she has been spending on toys and clothes and who knows what for who knows why and she will buy two tickets to Kathmandu where she will teach English to Buddhist monks for a summer and she will bring him with her. The boy she carried and birthed and broke will come with her, on the biggest backpack adventure either he or she can fathom. This will be a healing journey, the ultimate mother-son-reunion, and there will be such a homecoming when they return.

You Will Burn After Reading

Yes, that sounds dramatic, hyperbolic, and uncomfortably zealous in the way that only religious fundamentalists and horror-film fans can stomach. But bear with her. She's working on an idea here. It's a little unformed, like that glimpse of what could be either ghost or gore if you dare to look, or maybe it's nothing at all -- and would that really be such a relief?

What she means is you will be lit from within when you read this. When you read this, this, this, whatever it happens to be when it happens, it will light a fire within you and you will burn for, for, for...

For more. For the same again. For it to be you writing now, for it to be yours. For these incendiary words to be from you. For you and from you and out in the world to be claimed by those who like the feeling of being caught by a flame, to catch a flame and swallow it and let it consume you just enough to be all you want to do and be and feel.

This doesn't happen often, maybe because there are few words that can do such magic, such spontaneous combustion and phoenix-from-flame renewal; or maybe because it's rare to find yourself willing to surrender in the way you need to in order for the spark to catch; or maybe it's because, like anyone who's new or (worse) has forgotten it's not comfortable to lose yourself in a feeling that's not entirely painless, because that's desire, my loves, that's what we all need to ride and reign and release and regain.

Oh, she's on fire alright. She read and she will read and she will keep reading and there will be such a flame in her life that who knows how it will scorch her.

She Must Write

Not for money. No, there's little money, when you break it down (or it breaks you down) in writing these days. She has watched those with real skill, real grit -- those who pull no punches from their keyboards -- struggle to keep the money coming in with their flock of words. She knows there is no money in writing, enough said. So this is not why she must write.

Not for love. Or perhaps she should say, not to get love. Not to get herself in or out of that tempting territory. No longer is she in need of proving what her heart can do. No more will she rearrange the lines of poets and lovers before her to tell her own story of love, to convince herself of her heart's own purpose in beating so so strong. Not for love, not even for love of writing, because this is not the kind of writing she must undertake.

She must write, now more than ever, because she is a writer. Because, regardless of what she has told herself over the last however many several trying years, she has always been a writer. She writes to share her story, to live her story, to connect her story to the stories of others and see her place, her connection, to the larger story that we all share. This is not poetry. This is not philosophy. This is our common truth.

She writes because she is here.

The End Of December, As We Know It

Can you feel it? It may not be the apocalypse or the Big One, but something has shifted. We Riouxs have weathered the storms of 2012, and as this tantrum of a year comes to a heaving, sagging, sodden end we are looking some kind of wonderful change right in the eye. We're not blinking, or laughing. We're going to win this stare down. 2013 is a year of promise. It's a year of fulfilling our potential, of refusing to settle for just surviving, for just scraping by. This year E will turn five and conquer kindergarden. He will be a fearless leader, a fervent learner, a fierce friend. This year J will sell his writing and earn the recognition he has never sought but always deserved. This year M will string together sentences and stop hearts. This year J will become the teacher and healer she was meant to be. This year the Riouxs will witness weddings, whisper about elopements and celebrate the triumph of love over all. We will welcome babies and offer cups of coffee and kindness to their wide-eyed, newly wearied parents. We can't wait. We're living for this. We're choosing to embrace it all. Happy New Year, everyone. May this be the one that sparkles.