POEM: When I Can't Write...I Write Anyway

I recently found this painting made in 2011 and stashed away in a closet. It reminded me how much I like to paint. I was the phoenix then and now—it doesn’t feel “late” to share it :)

This poem is for anyone out there who can relate to the feeling of wanting so badly to create but not finding the space or the words or the way. I feel this a lot and try to work through it.

Tonight, I wanted to work on an essay about the sacred heart, but I just kept doing the things I do to avoid writing. In these moments, it takes a lot of self-compassion and discipline to find my way back to art, work, or to give myself a break.

Sending love and compassion to you in your creative expression … or avoidance of it :)

When I Can't Write...
By Schuyler Brown 

I can’t write tonight
so I clean. 
I clean, so that 
I won’t write.
I wonder if Rumi 
ever had this problem... 
or Rilke? 
Surely, not Rilke.

I wash the dishes 
as if they need scouring.
What am I avoiding? 
I pull out the vacuum...again.
What am I afraid of? 
I wonder as I fall into my clean sheets, 
exhausted:
Who's idea was it 
to collapse?
This woman's work 
is never done.

I feel my mother 
when I fuss in the kitchen.
I feel my grandmother 
when I sweep corners 
where no one ever looks.
I feel all the women
when I'm on my hands and knees
with a neatly-folded paper towel 
spot cleaning what the mop missed.
Yes, that's when I feel
all the women
who ever kept house 
instead of making their mark.

It's maddening! 
What is this pressure 
that drives me to distraction?
That so badly needs release?
Creativity!
Life force!
Raw power!
Poems yet to be written...
Paintings yet to be painted...
Worlds yet to be created...
I hear them! I see them! I feel them! 
Sometimes, all at once!
But, there are a million and one things 
that seem to need my attention
on the way to my destiny;
between me and my journal;
between me and my art supplies...
between me and my soul.

To be clear:
I'm not talking about responsibility,
or care for others,
or real chores:
things that need fixing,
folks who need tending,
things that are due,
things that fall to you.
Cleaning can be holy work.
Chores can be sacred.
Some routines 
are as good as ritual.

I'm talking about the distraction,
avoidance, and procrastination.
I'm talking about the voice that says:
"What if they find out 
I’m full of dangerous ideas? 
Marvelous mischief! 
Oh, I better keep that under wraps...
I better
CLEAN THAT UP."

My dreams
grow louder 
as I try to ignore them.
This is a blessing.
They build up 
until I’m ready to explode!
This is a blessing.
The intensity tells me something 
(if I listen)
about desire
and how I long to serve
and how I know 
in my heart of hearts
my voice matters.
This truth
is a blessing.

When I feel how my creativity 
actually scares me;
how my desire 
seeks a worthy object;
when the lingering stories 
of persecution
wind their way 
through my neural networks;
stifling my voice 
like a boa constrictor,
slowly compressing the life
out of my dreams.
That’s when I know 
what I need to create
is space.

Just stop. 
Put down the broom.
Listen. Feel. Rest.
Ignore the dishes in the sink.
Leave the rug askew 
and the bed unmade 
and write,
pray,
dance,
make something,
say something unconventional...
whether it’s heard or not hardly matters.
It’s for you.
It’s for us.
It’s for them:
all the women who can’t 
write tonight 
or dance or pray
for any reason at all,
for any reason at all. 

My grandmother, 
Minerva,
kept a house so clean 
"you could eat off the floors."
At her funeral, 
someone passed me
an old blue book
from her senior year of high school
valedictorian
in which she'd written
a moving, stirring,
rousing essay 
about the need to end all war.
It was the first time 
I'd heard this voice
her voice.
I will stop cleaning tonight 
and write for her.
~~~
October 29, 2023