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Letting out the whirling dervish of potential we so often abandon

I find myself for the third time on the shores of Clear Lake, which is situated in the northeast corner of Indiana, very near the Michigan border. My work as a writer brings me here every other week, and I settle myself and my computer at a table facing the lapping waves. I ponder whether the quiet atmosphere helps me to write or if it distracts me, the swell of the water moving in a mesmerizing circular rhythm. Itís a project that has an end in sight, and I have enjoyed getting out of my mundane kitchen workspace to enjoy different vistas.

I didnít start my second career until I was in my 40s. I believe the writer and poet inside me was always there, but she was quiet for a time until I was ready to greet her again.

I excelled in writing whilst in school and wrote endless poetry scribbled in college-lined notebooks. I was the lovesick Shakespearean writer, who with loopy, romantic writing, penned countless odes and sonnets and hid them away in the bedroom drawers of my childhood. I wish I had those today.

I was encouraged by my humanities teacher to enroll in college, but at that time I didnít love school enough to continue. Looking back, I sometimes wonder what would have been changed in my life had I decided to further my education.

But looking back doesnít serve any purpose because it would erase where I did go and who I met along the way. My husbandís face endeared itself to me on one of those forays, and he is who keeps me sane on days I want to give up. When Iím away on a writing trip, his face through a small screen pushes me on along with the small electric current letting me know that love continues through the vast minutes of a life. Itís a current that still holds raging sway.

Looking back erases him and some of the most adventurous times and places that life took me to. I will never look back, knowing I would still make the same choices. But the choices I made didnít erase what I had inside of me to do.

After my kids were gone, the frank poet and tempestuous word snob inside of me started knocking on my chest until I couldnít ignore her. Willfully ignoring an ability and drive to release does nothing but stunt your growth, so I let her out, that youthful sizzle still burning.

I looked younger Missy in the eye and introduced her to older Missy, and we are combining what weíve learned. I donít want to forget the agony and vigor of my youth while embracing what the spiral of years has enlightened me to. Itís a heady mix.

Iíve completed one book this year and am working on the project here at the lake. I have enough entries of poetry for an entire volume of my toothsome word salads that I spill on paper like water, and I have enough notes on my phone for new ideas to last a lifetime. If I do one quarter of the ideas I harbor, Iíll be content.

Iíve often said that if you sit down and begin something, you canít stop. You shouldnít because itís right. Maybe my words fall on people and they soak them up, embracing what Iíve said. Maybe my words anger some and they become heated inside at what I might imply. To this I say, ďExcellent.Ē

As a writer Iím not here to make you feel warm and cozy all the time. I want the characters I type out in singular succession to make you think and maybe go back and reread again for clarity. My ideas may differ from yours, and difference is good, but kindness should always remain even in disagreement.

Just know that my ability to think them is my own, a woman ably forming her own thoughts. I would never want to live in a world where our thoughts must conform to get along. Conformity makes life a maddening bore. I let out my bookish, romantic schoolgirl and combined her with her older, more political 40-something counterpart, and a whirling dervish was formed. Donít miss out on yours.

Published: March 24, 2017
New Article ID: 2017703249966