My daughter looks for the moon each day. Every time we step outside, her eyes dart across the sky. Every time she gets in the car or walks into a room with windows, she runs to see where her friend Moon is. If Moon can’t be found, we step outside after dusk and seek her out as a family. Once we have Moon in our gaze, my daughter proceeds to squeal her hellos and how are yous. This quest for connection feels constant, yet endearing.
Eventually, most of us lose this- this seeking of unique (or ancient) relationship.
At what age do we forget the need to be in conversation with nonhuman entities, the language we share? At what point do we become so out of practice that the final word silently slips away from our knowing?
I believe we poets have a knack for seeking, for wonder. That to some degree, we retain the ability to listen for languages that are older than words.
Our planet is roughly 70% water. The moon governs the tides.
Our bodies are roughly 70% water. The moon governs… ?
I am interested in learning this language again. In seeking out the moon every day. In remembering this language I’ve forgotten.
The moon governs what we allow it to govern. If I am to set an intention for 2024, let it be this: remembering, reconnecting. And so I shall invite the moon into my creative process. I shall try to write you with its turning.
While I haven't been writing, I have been watching. I have been living. I have been paying attention, and allowing what I notice to simply exist without an incessant need for grasping it and turning it into something else.
When I said I was taking a short break throughout the holiday season, I meant it. I wrote very little, both here, in my notebook, in my notes app, on scraps of paper. Before my sabbatical, my writing practice had become forced. My attention, scattered. My vision for my creative process, cloudy. I was circling the same old, worn down trails and getting lost with other people’s roadmaps. I needed time to let the fog clear, to get a better understanding for what lay ahead…
During this time away, here are a few things I’ve noticed and a few things I’ve learned ( /am learning).
I’ve noticed:
my general wellbeing benefits greatly from sunlight and moonlight and activities thereunder. Far less so from screenlight.
there is a lot of hype and noise surrounding Substack taking off as a social media platform.
my nervous system is asking louder, with growing agitation, that I be less present with hustle-based social media culture.
What I’m learning is:
my creative process does not benefit from monetization in a content-hungry market. This newsletter is a place where my art can unfold, where community can grow, and, for me, these things can’t be held to a schedule of quick turnarounds.
taking a break from a writing practice doesn’t make one less of a writer or a poet. It means that other aspects of the process (namely, living the poem and connecting in person) are taking necessary precedence.
creative process, making art, and presenting one’s work is different for mothers- we are at a disadvantage that isn’t widely spoken about or understood. The nuances of expectation within the perfect mother myth have us operating within a system that does not support us in our art making, in investing in ourselves through the pastimes that keep us sane, whole or healthy. (Below is a link to a caption that I feel sums this up succinctly.)
If I synthesize the moon, my noticings and my learnings, here is what I get:
A pull to write to you here with the same consistency, but with less frequency, in step with the moon.
A pull for this aspect of my creative practice to evolve without money getting wrapped up in the process.
A pull to write to you about living the poem, while keeping the poems themselves a bit more private.
A pull to invest my time in art-making behind the scenes, the process of which I may share here. I have felt this pull for some time- to birth a body of work that I have been compiling and tweaking for nigh on three years in a physical format. This endeavor requires great attention. Attention that, as a mother and a poet, I can’t afford to siphon into a weekly paid newsletter.
It’s good to be back in my notebook, to feel the pull towards my desk once again. As always, I am ever grateful to be here with you. To be in conversation about poetry and what it looks like for each of us. To be a poet and what that means for each of us. Please feel free to leave a note in the comments about any of this or whatever else is stirring your creative process. I will be back in your inbox when the moon is high and the pull is right - later this month.
See you at the Wolf Moon.
Until then,
yours in poetry,
Kat
let’s connect over poetry & process
A 3-part workshop on self publication. If you, like me, are seeking to share your art with the world in a whole new fashion, join Poetry Forge and I Fridays, January 12, 19 and 26. We will explore connection, as well as how to build a framework for your body of work to exist out in the world. Each participant will additionally receive a 1:1 consultation with me to offer an added layer of support. It’s 2024 fam…. it’s time for our poems to reach the people. To build the community we long for through our art. Big scale or small, digital or physical format, your poems, writing and photos are needed by the collective.
Our group of mother-poets is breathing new life into my writing practice. We are sharing poems in written and visual form, gathering to write and read together and forming what I consider to be very sweet, life-affirming connections. If you’re searching for a community of writers who are also mothers, if you understand the necessity and difficulty of investing in creative process while also caring for young humans, and if you need need need space for autonomy and art making, we would love for you to join us.
I really enjoyed this post and resonated with a lot of it - especially as a mother and creative. Thanks for sharing your perspective.
I truly appreciate you sharing your thoughts about publishing here. I’m having similar wonderings. After years, I’m feeling the pull to “create” again, rather than what I’ve been doing (I might call it “churning”). Your daughter’s relationship with the moon is so dear, and I love how your family steps outside to greet the moon together. We all need more of that.