I came here to write
I came here to write. “Here” being a 24-acre farm carved out of British Columbia’s northwest interior cedar hemlock forest a hundred years ago and ignored for a quarter-century, so that when we found it ten years ago, the forest had reclaimed the edges.
“Found” implies we were looking for it. We were not. Or, we were, but not here. A thousand miles south, in what we, as northerners now, call the Lower Mania.
We stumbled on it by accident. That’s a tale for another day. For now, let’s just say I was lured by the promise of a story. Lone Wolf seized an opportunity to realize her lifelong dream of farming.
LW is my partner. She’s independent and guards her privacy. I’ll protect mine, too, for the moment, until I get more comfortable with blogging. For now, it’s enough to poke one toe in the water to see how it feels.
In Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott compares writing a first draft to watching a Polaroid develop. You can’t know, she says, what the picture will look like until it has finished developing. That’s what commatology feels like for me. I don’t know yet what this blog is about. The name arrived in a flash of intuition on my stationary cycle a year ago. I didn’t know it was a blog.
I want to talk about those flashes here. Mystery. Gaps in conscious awareness. Transcendental consciousness, the meditators call it. One’s inner wise self. Whatever magic led me here. To write.
…
This is commatology.
For now.