You can give yourself more time today. It’s the weekend. There is no place else you have to be and a zillion other places you could be or should be. But you are here, with yourself and the irritations and elation that make you one of us—a human who writes to make sense of it all. Someone possessed by a kink in the brain that is always writing, or meaning to write. Someone simultaneously watching and re-telling, living and then, on the page, reliving. Someone lamenting the lack of time, the lack of will, the lack of inspiration, the lack of skill to write. Laments as constant as diversion, laments whose single antidote is to write. It doesn’t matter what you write. Just write.
Consider the phrase: “Walk around feeling like a leaf”. Become a leaf of summer—robust, green, and sturdy on the branch. Become a leaf of autumn, scattered by the wind. Become a leaf of winter—dark and underfoot in the snow. Become the thought of a leaf in the spring. Be a leaf, have some fun, and write your life story. This poem offers some simple techniques for managing situations that could interfere with your ambitions to live like a leaf. It is called, “The Art of Disappearing.”
When they say Don't I know you? say no. When they invite you to the party remember what parties are like before answering. Someone telling you in a loud voice they once wrote a poem. Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate. Then reply.
If they say We should get together say why?
It's not that you don't love them anymore. You're trying to remember something too important to forget. Trees. The monastery bell at twilight. Tell them you have a new project. It will never be finished.When someone recognizes you in a grocery store nod briefly and become a cabbage. When someone you haven't seen in ten years appears at the door, don't start singing him all your new songs. You will never catch up.Walk around feeling like a leaf. Know you could tumble any second. Then decide what to do with your time.
Naomi Shihab Nye