Three
I stopped writing after the first year. At least regularly writing. At first the need to write was like an urgent, pressing need. There was just so much to process, so much to share, so much to express and I had to get it out before it all jumbled up into the next experience or feeling. Like train cars smashing and piling into the one before it. In the very beginning I felt like I could write 3 or 4 times a day. Gradually it slowed to one writing a day, every few days, once a week, and then really pushing myself to get something posted once a week. Gradually it felt like the immense train came to a rolling stop in one place, bellowing out exhausted black smoke, giving me time to step out and survey the strange, sad, desolate land of my arrival. You might be wondering what it was like, after the fire and the crisis. What does life, as we must call it, look like then? The best I can say is that it was foggy, slow, and tender. It was like rehab and recovery. Painful, necessary, full of st...