So, I'm lounging in bed. I just finished reading a piece from one of my favorite literary websites, Literary Hub, about the joys of writing in bed (link above). It got me thinking about my own positioning while writing. Perhaps a new blog title could be, "beds and beachchairs"...
Depending on the genre, this dictates where I write. If I'm researching or writing up lesson plans or lectures, I need structure. I need a solid table and chair to support the intensity of what's happening inside my head. This type of writing, I am a self-imposed prisoner of my mind. I exile myself to a confined space. I am very linear in this way. I am very much my father's daughter.
On the other hand, when I take up the pen, creatively, I pursue softer sit-scapes. Often, I bring my beach chair inside the living room and carve out a piece. There is something about being low to the ground, for me. I grew up at the beach; various beaches in various countries. Perhaps it is the absence of a beach, here in the mountains, that necessitates this. Perhaps not.
My bed is always a solid alternative writing spot (it helps to have a kick-ass memory foam mattress topper). Being a mountain dweller, currently, I have this incredible view off of my lanai (balcony). I look up into Ras el Ma (forest) through the openings of my curtains as breezes separate them, and I'm reminded of when I last lived in the mountains, in Yosemite. I'm not a mountain girl, yet I can't deny this 'mountain wisdom' that I'm attracted to. This teacher that I'm pining after that shows me how to be small and significant at the same time. John Muir, who spent a lot of time living and writing in Yosemite, was onto something when he said something like going up the mountain is more like going inward— into the mountain, into thyself.
Earlier this week, while attending a workshop given by a visiting professor, he asked what it is that we want. The workshop's theme was regarding what is happening to Liberal Arts departments is in higher education right now (something we all can't help but wonder what the answer is and do not dare to ask AI..). I sequestered myself away in my own little world, in full view of my colleagues, and thought to myself, "I want to hear static. I want to lay down on the grass and stare up into the blue sky and hear static" — like I did when I was a child pondering small yet significant things that would shape my future-self.
Mountains. I hear static, sometimes, when I'm riding through the rugged mountain terrain here. Another place where the cacophony of static prevails is underneath the water, snorkeling or scuba-diving. This was a phenomenon I knew intimately, yet never contemplated the greatness of this sound until I removed myself from this experience on a daily basis.
It's been nearly two decades since I force-ably removed myself from the sweet embrace of Hawaii, but I was focused on seeking out brave new worlds far away from the Islands. In search of unfamiliar static, I moved around a lot. At some point On The Road, I forgot about static. I lived without consciousness of static. And just like that, it re-entered my life, in the mountains of Yosemite. And then it was gone. And now it's back, again in the mountains here in Ifrane.
Sometimes in the morning when I'm writing in bed I look up into the mountains and I can almost hear the static calling me, enticing me to come out and play. Dutifully, I hop on my bike and search out the static. Today was no different, or was it?
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