Staying Sensitive To The Unseen
To think I really used to worry that if you went too long without writing, you would lose the part of you that notices what you notice.
But then you walk through Washington Square Park on a Monday night and you see young lovers sitting on a bench going through it, and you have no idea what they’re on about, but you know that look on their faces.
You have no clue what he whispered to make her turn away from him, but you’ve been there before—both the one trying to let the other down easy and the one trying to hide the damage.
I used to worry that if you didn’t make a conscious effort to look at things, you’d miss them.
But as you walk around the fountain you catch these kids pass bottles of water with something red in it between them, and you know exactly what they’re doing.
While talking with your friend about something else, you remember how it felt sharing drinks with that girl from first year, thinking that’s as close as you would ever get to kissing them.
And all of this happens in seconds as you circle the arena looking for a place to sit between happenings and flashbacks. Your bodies seem to agree on the bench next to the loud ass gutter punks and goth kids.
You sit there, take it all in, and remember it’s been quite some time since you’ve really sat down to write.
I used to worry that if you lost your will to write, life would lose meaning.
But then you articulate this feeling with a friend and they share with you what’s been weighing on them, and you’re so present in your grievances that you completely vanish in the jazz of this moment.
Helicopters drone above the park and what sounds like fireworks reminds us there’s a war outside. There’s a protest not too far from us at NYU, and I’ve been thinking about going back to school, or moving very far away from here.
There’s reggae, weed, and banter on the breeze and you’ve got folks who look like they’ve been coming here for ages and kids dressed like they were born a generation or two before them.
In some way we all look the part of soldier. Tired. Wired. Playing off the fatigue in workwear.
There’s a genocide in Gaza and there’s a man riding his bike like a skateboard, a fella selling his wares, and two friends sitting on a bench pointing out the absurdity of our government, the two party system, and complaining about still having pay bills like it’s their career.
I used to worry that I’d lose it. That one day this world would break me and I’d just run out of words and when I did, I would die. But this world has broken me…is breaking me…but then you remember that you are alive. And this is what it means. And what you thought would run out comes bleeding from places you didn’t know had feeling.
Being a poet, artist, or writer, you realize, it isn’t only about words, it’s about keeping sight of what others don’t see in the world, staying sensitive to the unseen, and bringing it into view, so others may see it too.
To think I used to worry that the last time I wrote would be the last time I’d ever write, but then I remembered the last time I thought that, and how I’m still writing. It’s normal to feel guilty when you’re not creating. It’s normal for global events, big life changes, and unideal circumstances to impact your creative practice. Your craft is as much memory as it is muscle.
And it helps to remember that. This world may try to take your words, but it can’t take your empathy. This world may try to steal your hope and your time, but it can’t steal your sensitivity, or your eye. So long as you have that, you will always have a language.
If you’ve been feeling called to find a language for this season of growth, transition, and transformation among a likeminded community of artists and writers, join me for this month’s writing workshops, Take Care Of Your Fire on Saturday, May 11th from 1-3PM EST and Stay Radiant Dear Light on Saturday, May 18th from 1-3PM EST.
This is the last time I’ll be hosting the workshops in this series, so if you’ve been curious, now’s the time.
These are generative writing workshops designed to offer you the essential tools to engage your writing practice with curiosity, structure, style, and authenticity.
Together we will read poems, analyze and deconstruct them to better understand how to employ their strengths in our own unique way.
We will also explore a series of unique writing prompts and practices to keep our writing fresh, vibrant, and true to us.
By the end of these workshops you will have a growing series of works you can be proud of.
If you’d like to learn more about each workshop, click the links below and sign up.
I hope to see you all there.
There are 10 seats available for each workshop.