Yrsa Daley-Ward

the space between you and you
    
by  Yrsa Daley-Ward


Reader,

There is a universe waiting when we close our eyes.

It is someplace luminous, a planet-house of ideas, lifetimes of truth that have yet to present themselves. Funny then; how we should often find ourselves so bored, so stuck, as though we are not always walking around with worlds in our fingertips,

but how to get to them? How indeed.

Often I find my dreams and meditations to be maze-like pathways, connecting me to wishes left behind, pleasures I dare not request. That is why I have to grab my book in the quiet of the morning and write,

write in the space where the dream is still talking, the rooms where I might still be receptive. I find all my best words after sleep and in the dark. The black mother of the night is a call back to source, the connecting tissue between my soul and me.

If you find yourself emptied or far from your source, pick up your pen in the quiet, and watch it move. This practice goes far beyond writing and it will enhance any truth-telling. It does not have to be beautiful. It does not have to make sense. It is a sketch of the heart. Whatever materials you work with, do not be afraid to work out your kinks, to confront the movements that make a home in your chest, the odd, unwelcome shapes. Often, like the fading dream, they can be indistinct, scurrying from view. Not everything has a name, and there will be things that leave a stain on you, small details that, once expressed, make a world of sense.

Writing is often a translation. For the writer, for the reader. The first thing I ever did with my words was to sing them. The power in my voice and belly showed me who I might be. I always want to do more when it comes to writing. But I only need to be, to let it come to and through me. I must stop trying to outsmart a thing centuries wiser than me.

Today, use writing as a way to connect. Write a letter of bold appreciation. Leave a shocking love note on the fridge,

change the bones of your romance,

ask for more, if more is what you want

and be wild in your asking,

because why not?

Without writing, I would be a million times more lonely. Without writing (or reading), I would believe that I am the only one who struggles to rise, the only one who, at times, feels so desperately alone. I would find myself anchored to the things I perceive as truth, and there would be no relief, no mirror from which to see the miracle that is my life. I write, and I save myself from sinking.