Writers of our own demise

Somewhere after toys and make-believe friends (Do people ever stop pretending in private?), we all become writers of our own demise. "But I'm not a writer," you might say. In a sense, we all are. We all create the stories of our lives. As events unfold before us, it is up to each one of us to make a choice and take one of the paths that open up to us. The more choices we make, the more colourful our lives become until soon we may become overwhelmed by everything we wanted - or thought we wanted at the time. Good, bad or ugly. In taking on too many activities, too many jobs, too many hobbies, we start to feel like a boat with no oars bobbing on the water. Out of control and heading toward the waterfall. If anyone had told me 20 years ago that at 43 I'd be juggling three kids, a husband, a job, a house, a writing career, a writing group and trying to keep fit and sane, I would have offered to buy the next round of drinks. Yet, here I am. Do I regret any of it? Not for a second. I'm doing what I love, it just takes a lot of co-ordinating schedules and time. Do I wish there were two of me? Two, some days, is not enough. Do I think I should give up and hide in a cave with a bottle of wine and a case of chocolate? At least once a month. Then I snap out of it five minutes later, grab a cup of coffee (yes, I do have a vice. The blood of writers everywhere!) and set out on my next quest. This week, it's editing a book I really want to see published. Last week it was trying out my first karate class. The following poem I wrote at a Sacred Writing workshop in 2008. It is the times when I am ready to retreat to the cave that I stand up, take a few deep breaths and shout out to the sky... I Surrender   by Diane Bator Lift up my hands, I surrender I no longer have strength to fight. You scatter words like breadcrumbs Whispering them into my soul then to my pen. Flashes like lightening show me the way The tales are drawn from the air are told.  Lift up my hands, I surrender. I am but a vessel to hold And release the words like doves. Your words enrich all who live on Earth I am myself a sanctuary To the direction from your bountiful hand. Lift up my hands, I surrender. I revel in your loving grace. In the morning when I write I am freed from my chains. And I stand on the solid ground Of your hidden foundation and rejoice.   Thank you for reading my workCopywrite @ Diane Bator 2008