Vitamin me

If writing is food, I want real meals again.

Each time I lose a roll of film, I feel like I’ve lost my way. As if the images were my guide for what and how to share. It’s hard not to blame myself or moralize a potential lapse in attention. Did I properly load the camera? I thought so but now I can’t be sure.

The month of May was nearly too much. It’s impossible to remember what it’s like to live under constant light until, once again, eleven p.m. feels like five. Mania erupts. On the first nice day it’s painful, almost, to feel the need to drop everything and spend each sunny moment outside.

The rain comes as a relief. An excuse to be dormant and keep normal hours again. But then the clouds part and a voice says, well, is there time for a hike after all? Back in town later, the stores are closed because it’s after ten on a Tuesday. My refrigerator is empty. Life as we know it pauses under the midnight sun.

The photos I wanted to show you were from a trip to Homer, a seaside town south of Anchorage. I went there for a writing conference—an experience that brought me closer to my core. Sitting in lectures by novelists and poets, remembering that I want and need sustenance from creative work. I’ve been eating candy for the past few years and fear it is starting to show. I crave a meal—work that takes time to grow. That lasts in your belly far longer than sugar alone.

In this season of high energy, I search for balance. A detox from the dopamine coursing through my veins. A return to routine and habit, to grounding and poise. I need it, paradoxically, so that I may soar.

In the absence of film photos, here are some from my phone. A weekend on the water submerged in words and art. I’m inspired. Now I must take care of this body and heart to distill what I’ve learned. Producing nutrients takes time. I’ll try not to rush.

Plus, a film photo from a prior trip to Homer two summers ago. Same beach, same activity (tidepooling). It doesn’t get old.

Don’t mind the dust mark… gee, who let that happen !