Finding The Writing Rhythm

from the morning sunrise sessions.

On my birthday I pulled Queen of Swords.

“Embody the sharp truth” my friend told me. “Your writing needs to take the front seat again.” This friend is the creator of this particular deck of tarot cards. Her words, this card, both felt like a punch in the gut and a huge hug from the ancestors.

I have been sitting with this. Not sure where to begin. I’ve lost my rhythm in a lot of ways. But here I am.

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Yesterday we hiked through the woods. There were a few forks in the trail along the way and of course my husband and I debated (argued) over the ones to take— the high ridge or down to the river’s edge or one that felt like it went back to where we started. I finally had to say to him that I was the one who invited him on this hike with me and I need to be the one to lead, to choose the path,

“I am trying to find my writing rhythm” I told him. “I need to lead, not follow right now.”

It was true. It had been too long of not trusting myself with writing. I needed to navigate where I was going even if it didn’t seem like the best trail, even if I had no idea where it would lead. And because he’s been watching me write for 26 years now, got it. The trail I chose took us to a ridge which was about 80-100 feet above the river, it was steeper and rocky, I tripped a few times and fell a few times and sat in awe at the funghi I saw growing against exposed roots. A few times I had to catch my breath and close my eyes. Which was actually perfect. This is how I write. I payed attention to how my feet chose what rock to step on, or when it didn’t want to use a rock at all and land right on the semi frozen dirt. I went slower, I listened to my dogs panting, the shush sound of my coat as it brushed against my thigh. The sounds of crows. Honks of geese.

When we reached the actual rides, we were able to hike with the most extraordinary views of the Hudson River below us. We meandered in and out of old white pines, and in between them were scattered tiny baby white pines. The most incredible thing was listening to the sound of the ice — the cracks and pops and booms below us, the river thawing and moving and shifting— the water shoving it’s own icebergs off to the side to make way for the flow. It sounded like explosions. But also like scratches. And also like whistles. And sometimes like a tiny baby mini-cry. There wasn’t a real rhythm or reason, the voice was clear, but also ever-shifting. But it was water, so there was something within it all you could always know.

Eventually the trail descended and we were able to get close up with the river, down to a little ice covered beach. This river is approximately 20,000 years old. Some say 25,000 years old. The banks were frozen, massive formations of ice hills formed along them. Some ice was paper thin glass like shards — we were walking on some, creating shattering sounds. Our dogs cracked and crunched them. I watched the patterns, the veins, the lines, the movement of water underneath. It was all rhythm, lines reaching out to somewhere, taking up space, all we had to do was connect to it and it changed form. In the center, beyond the ice banks piled and layered on top of each other, the water insisted on flowing.

And in this narrow part of unfrozen life, she just moved and as she moved, her force would push the massive ice chunks, crack through them, move them out of her way and every sound you think water may make, frozen or thawed, it made. It was a cosmic cacophony every few minutes. My dogs would jump, startled, excited. So would I.

A couple weeks before so much more of this river was frozen, almost all of it (this morning as I write this, she is mostly frozen again). But as her desire to flow happened, the ice got out of her way, thawing, slowly becoming part of her flow. There is no absolutes in this process, I have watched it so many times. The only constant is this: the river finds themself as water, even when the water becomes hard, unmovable, the river finds a way to soften, to move, to keep flowing. The river is in constant change, but always the river.

I have felt frozen in my writing. But the water wants to flow. There is no perfect way, no absolute. You wait. Then you have to make a choice, a force, to thaw out.

I found my rhythm.

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I am starting this piece at 6am, after watching the sun rise. My brain works the best early, after one (or two) shots of strong espresso and no social media at all. I cannot stress how I cannot receive any other information but the unseen and my own space. If I open my phone, and see what others want me to see before I write — I become less self aware. This is something being age 51 has taught me. It really took me a long time.

Candles are all lit. Red light brings me warmth. This house has no fireplace, which is sad, so instead I create fire hazards with candles everywhere. I need to thaw. I need this light for my water.

My ancestor altar has a caffe on it — inside a tiny little Sicilian made ceramic cup. I am feeding the spirits that support me. I am asking them to hold my elbows as I type, to place a hand on my shoulder, to tell me to keep going.

I have the timer set for 25 minutes. Because I still do not completely trust myself to not forget what I am doing and become distracted by something, which with me, could be anything. Remember - you can do anything for 20 minutes. This is a real thing. Highly suggest. The timer is a safe container.

There have been long periods of time where I have not had a real writing rhythm. Of course I’ve been writing but not the kind of writing that requires a real devotion and dedication to my inner voice. I have been writing sales pages, social media posts, newsletters— all which I keep honest, true, me, but it’s different. Things that keep my business alive are different then the writing that keeps my river alive, keeps me thawing and moving towards source, you know? Things that I know go into business writing. But right now? I have no idea what I am writing. I have been spending my time on writing that creates a final product— not writing that is centered on the process. Both matter and are worthy. But only one cracks the ice, only one insists on my inner unknown to create a cosmic cacophony of sound.

I went to the river to really listen, to watch, she has become my teacher now that I live right against her. She is the elder I need as I train to become one. I need to be with her rhythm, not analyze it, not break it down into 100 different metaphors, which is easy to do, but instead just sit there and listen. I asked “help me find my rhythm” and so here I am this morning. Just showing up for it.

Rhythm can be challenging if your inner rhythm is more like jazz. I say that from experience. But then I realize jazz and water are not so different. Depending on the moment, my downbeat can take me far off path. Anytime I have tried to follow schedules that come from templates of successful people or or even fellow writers — I fail. So finding a rhythm for writing is just spending time getting to know your own rhythm, not forcing one that feels “right” — this can take time. But it’s essential. It is also process, practice, not an absolute. It is in it’s essence, your inner mystery.

I am taking this very seriously because the cards were very clear. I keep hearing my friend’s words. My writing must take the front burner.

My writing must be the most important part of “my work”. Because it is my practice. It is my altar.

There are some things I have been sitting with, to support me really living my writing rhythm are simple. I want to share them as best as I can without making this is a “how to” or a list. So, I’ll try.

To begin with I have been asking myself:

What kind of containers can hold me the best so I can learn more about myself and my writing.

I need spaciousness and my brain needs to be clear, full of nothing. Because to sit and begin to write is learning about the self, not deciding who or what the self is before you being. And it’s learning about what my writing, not knowing or stating what my writing is before I begin.

Speaking practically, I need to set a place— a specific space. A where and also a when. When is the best time and place for me to write so that I can slow down and learn about myself? And learn about what wants to be written. I used to be able to write anywhere. Leaning sideways off the bed, on the toilet, standing at the kitchen counter while I stir the sauce, while nursing babies. But not anymore. Writing is asking me to create a very intentional space for it.

For me, it’s the early morning— this hasn’t always been the case— back in the days when the kids were tiny and would wake me up at the crack of dawn, it was late at night, too late to be healthy for me, but I was young. Or while they were napping or at school. Or while I was sitting on the floor and they were reading their own little books or playing with blocks. Or with one hand as I rocked one.

But now – the creative river in me is most potent in the morning, all along, on the cusp of the sun rising.

When we seek a space and time to write — part of it is asking ourselves: what time of day calls for me? What time of day allows for it? Where does my body want to be — even if we don’t have the perfect set up— what is the next best thing? What do we need to venture in the cave which is bound to lead to some really deep work—- unearthing the mystery and then birthing it? I mean that is what writing is, right?

I find writing deep and also dark — but also playful and exciting and a bit of an energy turn on (and a million other things). I came to writing in the early morning for many reasons — but also that is the time of day I feel the most relaxed and playful and ready, and to be honest— hopeful — excited for what the day could be —excited for what may become. To channel the energy of this day on to paper. To create and spell words before doing anything else. It’s magic.

The other time of day that works when mornings are shot — because let’s face it sometimes I don’t want to get out of bed and sometimes I wake up in a hormonal bog. I give myself a break those mornings and let myself not be thawed into flowing water and allow myself some space to just take in what I am feeling.

Sometimes I sleep too late and there is a gaggle of teens and dogs and people who need me, want to talk to me, need me to drive somewhere. So another time I sit and write is after I get movement. A long walk, or a dance session, or a deep stretch session, or recently some weights— something that gets body in its own flow.

Being outside and moving the body brings such an openness for rhythm that it has really become part of the writing experience for me — to just be moving outside, anywhere. Paying attention.

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Pay attention to when we feel the most alive.

Paying attention is part of being a writer. Attention is writing. It allows us to be the most open as a channel. The most present to what is. One thing that helps me to really find out when I am most attentive, most in tune — is keeping a journal to record and notice when the flow happened the most. I time stamp it. When do I want to pick up that journal and jot something down? When am I most apt to grab it and get in it? I notice the times and the days this happens. Notice when I get the most interesting downloads. Again, for me it was the morning, but also there were other times of the day when some wild ideas would come through— and they would often be at the same time, or around the same time. I start to call those my portal moments — and I pay attention to them. I try and honor them. I try to stop for a moment and listen. And even if I jot something down, an idea, I have something for my next morning to play with.

Sustaining (or trying to) a writing rhythm. I am nuerosomething, ADHD, whatever the folks want to call it. Wildly distracted. A professional daydreamer that can wander away from any task at hand and get lost in the abyss. Also, anything can throw me off path, I mean the tiniest shift in a schedule and I am thrown so far off that I am just done. Like a houseguest, or a shift in schedule, or running out of coffee in the morning, or a bad fight with my husband or kid. And it can take me forever to find my way back. So sustainability, room for flexibility and support all matter— for helping me stay on rhythm but also for the support when the hard things come up, or when I lose the purpose, to help me find my way back.

Finding support is essential. This can mean I set up my writing space so it has the comfort I need beyond my candles and coffee— a glass of water is a good idea. Or access to the outdoors— being able to get up and take a break and get some fresh air, or stare at a tree can be helpful. Some flower essence to work through some blocks or to support the nervous system. My tarot cards are a must. Some hydrosol spray to spritz on my face, some herbs to burn and move some energy that isn’t useful in the writing. Ya know, when we write, we can invite some ghosts in. That’s fine, but we want to know how to send them back to where they belong. And ghosts are different then the ancestral support that is always with me. They are helpful, ghosts may not be. Support for me always means having a fellow writer or a trusted mentor or even a group that you can check in with and help you through.

Writing is a place of the unknown. The unexpected. And things can arise that are both intense but also just bring about a WTF kind of sentiment. How did I get here? Why am I even doing this? I suck. This makes no sense. This is horrible. Does this even matter? This really hurts to bring forward. How do I think I am? All things among thousands that writers experience.

Writing means getting lost — sometimes in amazing spaces and sometimes in the hard places where we have to confront ourselves— look our fears straight on. Writing puts us in the closet with a jaguar sometimes, and we either can look straight on, or run away. Don’t run away. We just need some kind of light within that dark, within lost-ness. Some kind of lamppost. A map. A compass. A dear friend nearby. A group for support.

Because in this kind of writing we are focused on process and not product — that process can take us a lot of places. This is what we want. This is what makes writing so healing, like the river elder, it keeps flowing, giving, melting, moving. The Atlantic Ocean needs that river water— it’s endless and also it doesn’t stop because it doesn’t know where it’s going.

Writing slowly is another brilliant way to find and honor our rhythm — I’ll write an entire essay on writing slowly one day (and how important it is). But for now, it’s been a practice. When I mean writing slowly, I mean slowing down the entire process, the thoughts and also the act typing (or hand writing) instead of trying to go fast and catch everything that is coming in).

Writing slowly is sinking in and not rushing the words, but to write as little as possible in a wide span of time. I know it may seem counterintuitive when you only have 25 minutes, or when you want to “produce” but remember this writing is process, not product and in process is when art is made.

I typically rush a lot of things — it’s just my constitution — me being a mother of three and never feeling there is enough time. It is a scarcity thing, it’s an “I need to catch up” thing, it’s a fear thing. It’s a “there is never enough” thing. Moving fast is a superpower when needed, but it really can also make us miss so much. It can really perpetuate unhealthy ways of being that happen outside writing as well. You know? Like why do we rush the good stuff?

What happens with our writing when we contemplate each word? Or just slow the entire thing down. I try to cut my typing speed by more than half. Seeing what rhythm emerges from moving my fingers like they are stuck in honey.

What can be written outside the rush of this world? What does it look like to write only one sentence, then gaze out the window for one minute. Come back and write one more sentence. What rhythm and what words might that bring? What did the trees do that make you want to come back to the word? How did doing nothing lend to your next slow sentence?

I don’t do this the entire time I sit and write. It’s exploration and practice within my writing time. Maybe I only do it for 3-5 minutes. Something to play with.

Set Boundaries. This is a big one for me. And for you, too. Say no to what doesn’t matter as much as writing time does. Don’t tinker away precious time on socials or doing things you really don’t want to do if it’s keeping you from writing. Revise parts of your life so you can mold yourself a secure writing container with space.

Get a physical timer. And something practical but I love it — get a timer that is not digital. Get the Time Timer if being near digital/phone timer is too tempting or distracting.

I am going to circle back to something I said above — please don’t think you can copy another writer’s rhythm. Did you notice here I didn’t really lay out a rhythm? There is no real list. There is no “do this” — I didn’t even know what I was going to say until I said it.

I am my own rhythm. Guess what? Rhythm is voice. Voice is what makes writing amazing.

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The river doesn’t move consistently or the same. I tried to break things up into some sense for you, in this, I can see that now looking back, but really, that isn’t what this is about. I started to write about being at the river and finding my rhythm again, but then I realized I wanted to share with you the things I had to lean into to figure it out, in my own voice, in the way my voice moves. Maybe my flow can meet up with your flow, and you can practice this too. What brings rhythm for you?

Your job is not to write like anyone else. I mean we can definitely take notes around the great writers and teachers, but when it comes down to it — we have to lean within ourselves. Trust the writing god within. Trust the waterway within.

Your job is not to write what’s on trend— instead lead, don’t follow.

If someone tries to tell you a “perfect” writing rhythm — like both in scheduling your writing and also WITHIN your writing — chances are it may be perfect for them but not for you. There are so many factors as humans and writers that make our lives diverse. That is what needs support. Not a template or a how too. Writing is wild, folks. Let’s keep it that way.

Go sit with your river. Listen.

Go sit with any water. Frozen or warm. Listen.

Go be with fire. Ask her to light your way.

(This piece is unedited and to show you how sitting down, the process, and the beauty of writing can be potent without perfection, without a product really, this was process/practice).

ALL my love, support and magic.

XX

MB

PLEASE WRITE. The world needs all our real voices.