I bought a collection by Rilke at Darvill’s bookstore on Orcas Island, hoping it would free me from a year without writing. The store is small, warm, and jam-packed with books. A chime goes off when the door opens, and it feels like another world, inside.
In one of my writing classes in college, a student asked, Has anyone ever lost their mind from writing?
The professor said she didn’t think so, but there are probably cases of writers who have lost their mind from not writing.
When I was young and had a fever, sometimes I imagined I could see with my eyes closed, as if I was inside a dark cave. It was a feeling of terror and disconnectedness, as though I was moving through space, in my mind.
It’s been a reopening of the senses, these past couple of weeks, traveling. Now I need to go back to the cave and see what’s there.