Wednesday, June 22, 2022

Hijacked

 


Solstice. Sol. Sistare. Latin root words that denote when the sun stands still. On last year's longest day I celebrated with a fire, drum circle, laughs and stories with dear women friends. The first day of summer marked the beginning of the third wettest monsoon season on record. Eighteen precious, wet inches fell upon Querencia Hill. The land turned excitedly verdant until September, then drought returned. Drought, in fact, became the metaphor for my pandemic reality, as written words dried up and ambition withered. Weird health phenomena sprouted anew from a body that had never let me down, except for the couple of times when I pushed the limits and broke an elbow bone while rock climbing; a leg and ankle while mountain biking. Suddenly, my life was structured around doctor's appointments, not writing schedules, readings, signings and public events. Even live music and dancing shriveled away. Looking back, I had reached my pandemic limit. That second year was harder than the tangled trails of the first, which I had assumed were a novel inconvenience. Deaths continued to rise, new variants birthed, the US hit a million dead, the world writhed. The pandemic became a permanent reality in the second year, as I numbed to the new existence. No travel. No seasonal park ranger position.  

I stared at the television screen for more hours than my previous seventy years combined. I logged more movies on Netflix and HBO Max (thank you Roku stick, another learning curve). I watched more television news than EVer. I did not, however, become part of the Zoom culture. To date, I've only logged into three recent zoom talks of an anthropological/ nature. I have no idea where resistance to zoom resided. I mean, what's the difference, really, between television and laptops screens? 

As authors I admire continued to write and publish, others resembled me, with no where to put the scope of the new, deadly reality, no way to process and regurgitate the darkness into words. The wild of Querencia Hill, the source of my strength and solace, took on an added layer of dread. The pandemic, after all, did not happen in a vacuum. It was part of a larger, climate-changed world, a world enveloped in the sixth mass extinction, the human-produced destruction of eons of evolution. 

Writers are empaths. It is our poetic necessity to feel. To intuit. To take what we witness into our cells, send it flowing through the bloodstream to our beating heart, inspire and breathe impressions through our lungs, down our arms into our fingers that hold a pen that scratches ink to paper. To not fulfill this force majeure results in the most serious form of constipation. Soul constraint. Spirit hardening. As the shit hit the fan in the outside world, it backed up internally in a gangrenous procession. My brain stopped finding words. I put on weight. My enthusiasm took a powder. It's as if two years erased my passion-studded life. My muse had been hijacked. 

The only way out was to write. 

It is summer solstice night. The thunderous sky has opened and water floods the streets, a torrent of wet with the promise of new life. This, as I type these words and the dam breaks on my writing drought. There is so much to say; to distill. Can I push against the walls of grief and squeeze toward the muse? She is there, I know. Thru the tears. The memories. Leaning into hope, if only for a breath.  







17 comments:

  1. You are an amazing writer!

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  2. Thanks for your vision, your heart, the gift of you!

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    1. And to you, the love and support on o-so many levels. Here's to more precious talks and raucous laughs.

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  3. Christina, I am immensely heartened by your commitment to writing. The pandemic is certainly not the whole story. Your awareness of this marks you as Witness. There will likely be more variants. And now we bask in the rain's blessings. You are an amazingly astute writer. Reading this is rain.

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    1. Thank you. So many questions, a cauldron of words. We shall stir them together, rainsoaked. Love to you.

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  4. So incredibly heart opening and heart moving. Thank you for the gift of these beautiful words.

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  5. The log jam has been smashed! Way to go girl. GREAT WRITING. Let that river flow, new life begin. Probably your best blog piece ever.
    xoxox

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    1. Feeling our way through a schizophrenic existence, yes? Thank you. So much.

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  6. So glad that the solstice is opening the sky to you again with no limits to what you might write or do. Thanks for this beautiful statement about the pandemic and the various droughts that came with it!

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    1. Thank YOU ... your guidance and assistance from Mother Spirit was/is indispensable. Movement. Yes.

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  7. Rain all day here I hope the fires are finally extinguished the whole state is wet and gleaming.

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    1. Yes, I am in Silver City and it is wonderfully cool and wet!! Love to you, friend.

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  8. Christina, thank you for so eloquently reflecting shared truths on so many fronts. I'm so sorry to hear about your health issues! I miss hearing from you - I've taken a hiatus from Facebook - and reading Hijacked has reminded me how much I look forward to your next book. Sending good thoughts and a big hug!!

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    1. Thank you Terry. So good to hear from you. Stay in touch and yes ... another book ... may spirit inform. Love to you ...

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  9. Nearly everyone I know is thoroughly worn out by Zoom meetings and other kinds of videoconferences. But during the pandemic it at least kept regular 2-way (& many-to-many) communication alive. Better than watching passively, I'd suggest. One org. that I'm part of tremendously expanded the scope of international participation in our programs. Intriguing that you were so determined to (mostly) avoid it. Still always a joy to read your words and soak in your experiences and perceptions of the great world out there!

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