And the writing keeps going, and the writing stays the same

 After a week of frustrating glitching in and out of classes, catching the debris of poetry and memories and fiction crafted and shared on the spot in this magical way that we practice here at The Beach, I am grateful and not surprised to be reminded every time I sit down to write that there's nothing that can replenish and restore and renew and bring me back home to myself,  into the moment, like writing. There may be a million things to pay attention to and no way to regroup. I can find myself shattered and split like broken glass, but as soon as I remember to write, I catch my breath. I'm back.

This morning, one of my students who I have known for over 12 years or so wrote about the things that bring her back. Like red wagons and little cups of ice cream with those little wooden spoons, and so many miraculous everyday things that live on in our bodies, in our heart's eye, waiting to be milked by the moment we sit down to write,  brought to life again, on the page for witnessing.