Words to write by: finding inspiration in Nature
By Rose Lindsey
While we move into May and the weather warms and brightens for the Pacific Northwest, this month’s writing prompt will focus on the embodied relationship we can find between ourselves and nature. Inspiration for this prompt is drawn from CAConrad’s (soma)tic exercises, which I encourage you to encounter for yourselves. Prompts are invitations, so follow this as closely as feels comfortable; however, for the intention of this month’s work, I encourage you to follow the steps as closely as you can.
Get yourself to a place with a naturalistic environment where you can unabashedly make contact with grass. An empty field or public park would be good locations for this. As a personal recommendation, Madrona Park is an excellent choice that provides multiple private points and nearby ambient water. Find a spot to settle into the grass, preferably barefoot. Doing your best to ignore any passersby or wandering eyes, shut your eyes and plant your palms and feet into the grass as firmly as possible.
From here, breathe into the moment of stillness you’re now inhabiting. Consider the energy exerting from the upper arms, the shins, pushing down into the dirt. Allow any breeze or sunlight to shift along your skin. Settle as much as possible into the moment, until you stop counting the seconds – take as many breaths as it takes to find this suspension.
Once you’re in the space of suspended firmness, consider how it feels to be so rooted against the dirt. Consider the smudging against your palms, the bristling of grass blades against your fingers. When was the last time you felt so intentionally connected to the ground you inhabit every day? Imagine your appendages as a transferal – drawing energy from the earth, returning it to the earth. How does it feel to draw from the earth? Where do you feel it in your body? How do you hold its texture, its history, its unimaginable presence before you? Hold as much as you can, as many considerations, until it feels like you might explode with ideas, theories, observations, memories. Reach the breaking point, where you have to write or you’ll lose something.
The moment this occurs, open your eyes, lunge forward, and grab onto your writing instrument with as much energy as possible. Write quickly those observations, structuring them however they will flow, building downwards across the page. Press one palm against your forehead as you go, and try not to concern yourself with any dirt that might be on your face. This is your opportunity to write into that earth, your relationship with it, your lineage on top of it, all that sprouted before and all that will sprout from it.
When your fervor has finally petered, take a breath as though you were not breathing before. Shut your eyes again, and toss your writing instrument away. Return to the earth below you, but with a softer intention now. You can return to the written word later. Now, bask in the suspension of the unwritten word.
Whenever you’re ready to return to your writing, you’ll have a new piece of writing! Feel free to refine, reimagine – but don’t lose that relationship with the dirt you just established. Let it surge through you, the ground ungrounded.