writing between the cracks

i write between the cracks of my life, the narrow spaces i have left between my crafts, my friends, my nephews and nieces, my farm, my teaching classes, my liaison with the department of agriculture, my occasional treasure hunting, my meetings with the mayor, with my farmers, the members of my orgs. WOW! that’s a lot of tiny cracks! no wonder, my writings are limited to the few lines of my reflections – a poem maybe, or just ramblings of this romantic me. by the looks of it, i will never be able to write a novel. . .

because i am a farmer, living on my farm’s income and the meager income of a teacher who teaches not in the classroom –- which means i live month to month, riding on a wave of near-debt experiences that always threatens to strike for the kill -– i only have time to write also when i am not balancing the books. and i have become good at it, too.

so i write during my lull time like now, sometimes after bedtime, when suddenly i am awakened by the silence of the night. but these cracks in the walls of my life, though hair-line, are long and deep. within them, writing is the seam that holds everything together.

because i have so little time of my own (well, it actually depends on who looks at the “time” i have in my hands, “working women” will see i got lots of it, as if i do not work ) and certainly a little space in this corner of my room, with a vintage desk at the corner –- old, wooden, sturdy, much of my writing exists in my mind. shadowy characters appear as i sort my buttons after midnight, that even the sound of my “pet” lizard is a welcome intermission, thoughts come alive like movies in my brain. it's the space and silence, away from the tedium of household distractions, which allows my brain freedom to roam.

as i arrange my buttons according to the color wheel in my mind, ideas emerge from the shadows and morph into bright beings with struggles and traumas, longings but never regrets. and all the while a story world uncoils within my mind; a realm that only i can see or hear, but that seems as real to me as the wind, now feeling so christmassy, blowing into my room, causing my sheer curtains to dance, teasing my face, wiping off some tears that sometimes have gone astray. . .