If you want to be a writer, I have one advice for you:
Sit down and WRITE.
And if you can - write EVERY DAY.
Be it five minute, or a page. Be consistent.
You don't have to be good at it. You don't have to be smart. Or funny. Or creative.
You just have to DO IT. You'll learn by doing. And in time, you'll grow.
And if you do it every day, it will become easy for you to say the frightening words: I AM A WRITER.
That is it. There's no better way to learn to do it than to do it.
All the best classes you take, all the books you read and all the podcast you'll hear will tell you this: the most important thing to do to be a writer is TO WRITE.
It's really no rocket science, people.
And no money is needed, no equipment, nothing but some allocated time and a pen.
You run out of ink? Write on empty. You run out of paper? Write on your body. On the floor. On the walls. Get a dry erase board, write on THAT.
Don't get attached to your writing. Don't fall in love with it.
Treat it like a mandala or a puzzle: make it, so you can undo it, and then begin again tomorrow.
The cycle of creation and destruction. Until some gems will birth and stick around day after day...And those gems... you'll know when they glow at you... when they shine at you, beaming. Those gems will make their way through you and out unto the world. And then you will say, proudly, humbly and with great respect to the mystery of art....: I AM A WRITER.
The child was a weaver: She had woven herself a blanket to help her sleep at night.
A dress to show up to the world with.
A bag to put all of her possessions.
A pair of socks to keep her warm.
With a thread of rainbow colors, she had woven herself a life.
That woven life of hers was colorful, sure, but it wasn't aligned properly, and there were some tears in the corner. One hole even got bigger and bigger with time. Every few years she would sew it back together, until it would unravel again. She wasn't good at sewing. But weaving was her gem.
So she added more and more layers to her imperfect life.
She'd use thick rough yarn, or delicate silk threads. It didn't matter as long as it would bend to her liking. Once she had even woven a long strand of grass into her life.
A taste of wild unkept nature to fuel her as she went along her handwoven life.
Occasionally, she invited guest weavers on her journey. Beginners, always.
Ones that she could teach and groom. Sometimes they would outdo her with their weaving skills, other times they would get bored and reach to video games instead.
She had a weaving buddy also. A 'best weaving friend'.
They would sit together, hours on end, weaving their lives away and sharing stories of their worst tears, or their most glamorous works of arts. They would flaunt each other's handwoven life with pride, and ask for help with those pestering imperfections that a handwoven life would bring along.
One day, the child hand-woven herself into her life.
She started with her feet: The sharp needle pierced through her pinky toe so easily.
'Ow!' The child shrieked.
But a moment later, she no longer felt the pain.
The thread was in her, they were intertwined, tangled up, woven together.
She waited a while, to roam free in her newfound body.
A body of bones and flesh but also now -- of thread and needles.
She tiptoed, stretched , hopped and felt the weight of her newfound self.
It was natural, as if she was never anything else but a handwoven piece.
She continued with her ankle. It burns a bit. But only for a moment.
And after a few breaths she was good to go, and so she went: she had woven her legs, her thighs, her abdomen, her back, her breasts, her neck and lastly: her head.
She didn't need eyes to see, because she could feel in every movement the millions of fiber threads in her veins. They now would lead the way.
She only needed her arms, so they could keep weaving.
She was after all - a weaver. And had to live up to the name.
Even when there was no longer any air and she had suffocated by a million tiny threads.
Even then, her arms kept weaving. A weaver is always -- a weaver.
Today I got mad.
Gushed like a volcano.
Poured out lava with my words.
To burn you whole
So you never again
Make me mad
But you didn't flinch
From the fire in my eyes
You didn't fire back
At me from close range
You didn't play
My sadistic game.
Instead you waited
For the storm to pass
And you held me in your arms
Today I got mad
And then I got quiet
And then I cried
Because it was the only way
To turn off the fire in me.
It was the only way to tell you
For seeing the woman behind the fire
For seeing the sad, under the mad.
Having Covid running through my veins is a bizarre experience:
First, it is a relief.
For nearly two years I was in sustained panic over this mysterious virus that has caused havoc on the wold, and finally I KNOW in my body what it feels like. The mystery is gone and it is somewhat settling, relieving, calming the fear away.
Second, it is strange.
The sensations of body aches and sudden fatigue are unlike anything I have experienced before. They are very mild for me, but still - strange nonetheless....
They make me wonder on the conversation happening in my body right now, between my immune system in all its might taking down the tenacious Omicron peeking at me from the inside.
Third, it is concerning.
Not really for my own health - I feel confident in my immune system given I am vaccinated and boosted. But it is concerning given so many people are experiencing this and it evolves into a full blown life threatening disease. It has killed 5.5 million people worldwide! The same or similar virus that is my body right now! Concerning, for sure. Knowing that so many are still unvaccinated against this potentially life threatening disease is concerning, and aggravating.
So, one mantra I keep running in my head as I live through the relieving, strange, concerning experience:
'My Body Is My Temple'
And so, I am grateful to occupy its sacred grounds, and I am so grateful for its godly strength. Here's to you, Body. Here's to you...
What to do when the BIG C aka Coronavirus aka Covid-19 gets to you?!?
And by that - I don't mean 'emotionally get to you' (though to that question I will answer: write a blog!) but rather I mean PHYSICALLY get you?
See, I have a FRIEND who thought she did everything right. She has been very cautious, wearing her Kn95 mask well over her nose, stayed home most of the time during these two years, got vaccinated and boosted, washes her hands religiously, uses a hand sanitizer so generously that her hands are dry, and does her best to avoid handshakes and the likes. Well, this friend suddenly found herself feeling mild symptoms and WHOOPS she tested positive for the big C. Omicron has come to her, like it has SO many others.
If you are guessing that my friend is ME... well.... drum roll.... YOU'RE RIGHT.
I have made it through nearly two years existing through a global pandemic without my personal experience with the virus... until today.
But worry not, I am vaccinated and boosted (and, um, believe in science thank you very much) and got a pretty good regimen of taking care of myself: vitamins, supplements, vegetable soup, ginger shots, healthy juices... those are all pretty much part of my daily or weekly routines anyways, so my body and me GOT THIS. (Yes, I am aware that some of those healthy methods may not be 100% scientifically found, but the power of belief in my self care ways is all the vibes right now)
I will be fine maybe in just a matter of days.
But some 5.5 MILLION humans of the world cannot say that, so I am very grateful to be among the healthy, the lucky and the VACCINATED.
I'd like to
to a place I've never been to before
not even in my dreams
or my worst nightmares
I'd like to
like a toddler jumping into her mother
breath slowing down
I'd like to
away from all my troubles
turn off the noise
the shell of a life
a new cocoon
to hope to be rid of
a new home
to leave behind one day.
I'd like to run
to you, love
waiting around the corner
lurking like a street light
in a city empty of people
I'd like to run
I'd like to run
I'd like to run
like the speed of light
I'd like to run
back to my life.
~...The streets of my dreams don't have stop lights.
They don't have roads. N traffic. No cars, engine, accidents. No bikes, either.
Just people, walking from place to place, from side to side, from one dream to another.
The streets of my dreams are not flat. Nor are they hilly.
The streets of my dreams are winding uneven terrain.
One can float on them, or hop, or fly.
One can walk inside of them, or below, or hover above.
The streets of my dreams have no rules, no rule keepers.
No rules to break and no people to break them.
Only dreamers occupy the streets of my dreams.
Dreamers who spring without moving, who move like clouds, softly, effortlessly, gigantically into the next moment, the next dream.
The streets of my dreams don't have maps. No gps, or guidance.
No way to get to. No way to come from. No way at all.
The streets of my dreams have no directions, no appointments, no schedules.
No errands. No meetings. No plans.
The streets of my dreams have happenings, not sometimes, but ALL the times.
All the times.
And they are present, reckless, bewildering, just like the making of dreams...~
"He who jumps into the void owes no explanation to those who stand and watch."
YES. The void. Jump to it. Surrender in it. And get through it a more alive person than you were before. More alive and more in touch with your self and with all things. Because the self is all things... To criticize, watch, and judge from the outside is to sit in comfort in your own terror of sinking into the lava; the void; the unknown. Don't concern yourself with that. It's small-minded. It's a distraction. Just JUMP IN. Heart first. Jump in to the unknown and create.
*Something that remains after a part is taken, separated, or designated or after the completion of a process.
~Do we ever 'wipe clean' after an experience? Do we ever forget an ex lover? Do we ever really leave the home we left behind? Yes. Yes, we do. BUT something always stays with us. A small part remains, a RESIDUE, with it we go forward. Cherish your residue. Hold it dearly. It is the remnant of what was once there. It is a reminder that we were somewhere else before. It is the past stamped; a clock stopped. It is a reminder of the past. All you have to do is be reminded. Remember it, and take it forward. Build your future with the residue of the past...~
The youngest daughter perks her head up. The rest of the family is once again, in freeze.
YOUNGEST DAUGHTER: I knew it. Of course. Nobody noticed. Of course not. Why would they? They're all just eating mom's stew, choking on vegetables and dripping in wine. Nobody noticed I haven't had a sip of my glass. Nobody noticed I went to bathroom twice already in the last hour. Maybe I should go a THIRD time. Maybe then they'll notice.
To think... they have known me my entire life. That woman over there, my mother? I literarily was IN her body. Napping, or swimming, or floating or whatever. Was in her womb for nine months. Nine whole months! In her body. Like a.... virus. Fungus. Alien. Feeling her every motion. Every time she ate. Every time she laughed. Every time she farted. And she felt my every kick, every twirl, every gesture. Until I came out. A person. An actual person out of my mom's vagina! Insane. Just... insane! We all just accept this bizarre reality. And dreams. Also weird. And we all just accept it. Like, it's no big deal. SO WILD. There she is, my own creator - my mother. And there's my old home - her belly. Now instead of me - her stew is hanging out in there. Being digested or whatever. WILD. Then when I was born - she was there with every cry, every need. Mothered me. Like really, that woman over there - she mothered me. Breastfed me. I ATE from her BOOB. Take that in for one minute. I ATE FROM HER BOOB. Wild. She knew every inch of me. And now she doesn't notice I'm growing one of my very own in my exploding belly. I mean, does she think I'm wearing this oversized dress because it's pretty!? Like, my fashion style is way better. WAY better. How does a mother just forget to notice her child, all of the sudden. How does she. I won't be like that. You hear me, little one? I know we haven't met yet. But I won't be like that. I won't. I won't. I won't.
In April 2020, while experiencing her first ever global pandemic, Tamar Pelzig pledged to write something every day, even if it's only a word, so she welcomed to the world a daily blog to keep her creative writing wheels rolling.
Header Art: Daniel Landerman