June 25th
This month, a few things will remain unwritten. We have been busy preparing and packing for our big summer road trip, which has not left a lot of bandwidth for quality writing. Our trip through Utah and Arizona, all the way to Colorado will have us off the grid often, which is why I am releasing the Poet’s Log for June today. I can only hope that I will find a lot of inspiration for my writing while we are on the road.
Before leaving, I have been trying to not leave any loose ends. The last sewing project, a pair of Arthur pants for our dear neighbor, is done and gifted. My bulky shawl has to be a resting work in progress, for I ran out of one color of yarn before finishing it. I tried to tidy up so that we would return to a somewhat clean house, but I have two chaos creators working against me, so I guess we will come back to our usual mess.

June 24th
Today’s lines, as I am still mesmerized by my new simple silver stacker ring that feels so familiar and therefore rather old.

my new ring the memory catcher,
the keeper of moments,
and the friend who made it
and the day in late June we got it

my new ring the reminder of unanswerable questions to spark my imagination
to find my heart and fill my pages
why did my mother have a simple silver ring?
was it a souvenir? a gift? I will never know,
and therefore have stories to tell

June 20th
Since yesterday I have entered the state in my writing that can become frustrating quickly if I don’t appreciate it for what it is. A character has walked into my inner landscape, but all I know so far is what she looks like and what she does. She doesn’t talk much either, and she has only presented herself with images. I don’t have words for her yet, although I want to write about her. There are more characters like her roaming my mind. Some of them are deeply connected to a certain place, others to an emotion. The only one, really, that I have been able to meet with words, is Grief the fisherman. Maybe, just maybe I can feel my way to those characters, hoping that the words will guide me eventually. I also have at least two more ideas for poems about Grief the fisherman and I think that I should write them first and I am starting to get frustrated because I am not. But maybe it’s about time to let myself have days that are not focussed on writing.

June 18th
I woke up after a dream that could be the beginning of a novel. Ready to read it? I was on a ship that later turned out to be a spaceship. Next thing I know, I am in a smaller spaceship, escaping from the big one. It was nerve wracking, because I was followed, but I got away and made it to a mall-like building. There, I was exhausted and hurt and inching my way to a martial arts gym. I wanted to seek asylum with those people. I barely made it to them, and when I finally got there, I collapsed. One person in a martial arts suit helped me get up again. They took me inside. My memories were fractured and I was plagued with anxiety, convinced that I had been held hostage by the aliens.
Then I found a microchip on the inside of my water bottle cap. The martial art people helped me look at it. We found a file on me that said Maternity one day and Moods the next day. Did I have a baby? There was also a record of a heartbeat. Someone said: this looks like serious distress! Upon further inquiry it was obvious that the heartbeat wasn’t my own, but my baby’s, during birth. We clicked play and a swirl of a movie was played. We were fast forwarded through the baby being stuck, then the baby being born. The aliens tried to latch it onto my breast, but it was already too weak. They injected a vaccine into baby’s armpit to save it, but to no avail. Someone said that this was advanced medicine. Eventually the baby died and the movie stopped in a frame of the torso of the baby. Only by looking at the torso I knew that I had lost my son. The word male was written at the top. I could not remember any of this, I could only feel the deep emptiness of losing my son. And then I was wondering if maybe the aliens had helped me by erasing my memories, because I couldn’t handle the loss. Whatever the case, I was now convinced to be trained by the martial arts people to become strong and to find purpose in life.

June 17th
Just this morning I was thinking that I haven’t written a complete poem in a while. I let myself be wordless. And then I saw a simple stacker ring in sterling silver, similar to my mother’s I wore as a child. The memory of the day it broke washed over me. I wrote a poem.
I will get one of those rings. Again. Off to make my own memories. Those that I will share with my daughter.
But how to carry on with a new thing that reminds me vaguely of my mother and that one day in my childhood, but that has no relation to my mother? I guess attributing all of those things to a simple ring is connection enough, but sometimes I really don’t know how to be my daughter’s mother without my mother. There are days when I feel as if I haven’t loved her enough. My son gets more attention from me and more snuggles, because he is little and still nursing. And when he is in bed, I want to attune to my needs.
Isn’t it funny how a little thing as a simple sterling silver ring can be a reminder of such big emotions? This is the face of the grief I know.

June 16th
I am in collecting mode for a new poem with grief as a person. I only have a broad idea of what the poem should entail, so I am fishing for words and images. With an open mind, I put possibilities in one place. Reminder: it’s ok to remain in the unknown for a little bit. When the time is right, a new poem will take shape.

today’s lines:
it had to be the ocean
for other bodies of water
were always too small to hold
the motherless mother in me

I am sharing lines like those in the Poet’s Log, because they are practice for me. I have been wanting to write shorter poems and those lines are a start.

June 15th
Just a quick check-in: I had a slow day after so many sprinkled with countless ideas. Reminder: it’s ok to take a break.

June 14th
I had a dream last night. In a writing circle, the author Dawn Tripp visited, and she was there to pick a few manuscripts to read and help publish. Randomly she picked a few manuscripts of the writers present. I was lucky enough to be in the right spot, so she picked mine. I then told her how I loved her novels Georgia and Moon Tide. (go check them out if you are looking for a good novel!)

I have been writing poetry more regularly for about nine months now, up to the point where it got devotional in April. After this time, I can sense that with a lot of practice comes change. My writing has been evolving, which I am attributing to the increased time spent with my poetry.

today’s lines:
years ago, I said living in Southern
California isn’t worth knitting for
little did I know that I would start yet
another bulky shawl less than a week away
from the summer solstice

June 12th and June 13th
This little, secret project with my friend is elating! I have been on writing wings for days. Gazing into the ocean and taking in the horizon, followed by writing a few lines, followed by editing and looking for more inspiration. Repeat. Once more I wish for and dream of a life writing. I know I am a writer, but I wish the world would know, too and therefore I could support my family as a writer.

here a few lines:
in a dream, a wren bird visits
with a slender beak and tan feather coat
it wants to eat from my hands,
but I only have empty hands to show
the wren gently picks the palm of my hand anyways,
a sensation as if kissed by a breath

June 10th and 11th
I was full of ideas and fishing for inspiration. And I wrote another poem with Grief as a person, that will go live on the blog in a few days.

June 9th
First thing in the morning, while sipping fresh black tea with heavy cream, I was editing the second poem I brought home from our recent trip. So grateful to be writing again!

June 8th
I am out of my poetic funk and am reminding myself to be grateful for it. I have been editing two poems and writing a new one today. Thanks to my cycle, I can always start anew.

June 4th-June 7th
We were on an overlanding, camping, hiking trip in the Inyo National Forest, in the Sierras. I found inspiration in the magical nature there. One night when I couldn’t sleep, I thought up a poem, certain that it would come to me again in the morning. And it did. Another poem’s beginning found me a day later. There is something deeply moving about being in the mountains, surrounded by ancient bristlecone pines, clark’s nutcrackers and mountain bluebirds.
I am certain that I will finish these two poems as well as the one I started before our trip. I will edit them over the next couple of days. One at a time.

June 3rd
What I started writing in German, I kept working on in English today. At first, I thought I would turn it into a German poem, something I haven’t done in ages! But I am also curious to see where it takes me in English. This may be a rare case of a text with two different sides. Not as a translation, but as a complementary piece of writing.

June 2nd
In the morning I put on my favourite blouse under my Hinterland Dress. Whatever magic I sewed into the dress, it keeps me calm and content each time I wear it. Handmade clothes are healing! And in combination with the blouse I feel a tad bit crazy, too. What a thrilling style!
Later that day, a friend of mine from highschool (we took biology together) reached out to me
about a project I had told her about. A collaboration between the two of us. Tentatively, we dipped our toes and dreamt first ideas. This got me out of my poetic funk.
What’s more, I wrote something up for her in German.

June 1st
I finished a poem and put it on the blog. Mostly for the sake of doing so.
I have an idea what’s causing my ongoing poetic funk. I have been so angry and annoyed and frustrated, accompanied by mourning for the state of the world (murdered Indigenous children, old growth logging, the San Marcos Foothills still under threat of development) that I have barely had any bandwidth left to feel anything else. The house is dirty and messy, I am constantly meeting my family member’s needs, i.e. I am chronically stressed. Today my lower back started hurting without any obvious reason. I would love to spend more time outside, but getting ready and leaving the house with my kids stresses me immeasurably. Everything feels like a chore. Movement. Nourishing myself and my family well. Keeping the house in a somewhat clean state. Parenting our kids and teaching them boundaries and emotional regulation and being consistent with rules when I am everything but balanced myself. My nervous system is constantly overstimulated. I spend too much time on my phone.
On top of everything I cling to my writing, because I know that it fills me with satisfaction and joy. But in order to get there, in order to write a poem, I would need to feel some more. I would need to feel anything but frustrated and annoyed and angry. I am asking myself how, when I am drained by these emotions. And I need certain emotions to write. I can’t just think up a poem, never could.
Instead of implementing new habits and truly changing something, I just get very tired and go to bed early to escape more demands and the mess. I dream up a space of my own. I always have.