#1 First
July 1st was the day I wrote my first poem in a long time. A childish prayer, struck out of grief and profound sadness after a tragic loss. That day, I decided that I could either fall apart or gather the strength I had left and turn it into something beautiful. This is why, even if I’m not proud of it, this poem matters to me.
Today is September 1st, two months later, nothing beautiful happened except I’m still writing. I hate summer because, as far as I know, death only tends to occur between June and September, leaving me to navigate the brightest season in the darkest mood.
When tragedies succeed one another, many things resurface. You find yourself lost at sea in a storm, not knowing if you'll ever find the harbor again. In the end, you do, but not the one you left from. Along the way, many things broke, and you need time to repair. That’s how I’ve spent the past five years.
I disappeared for a while, moving back to where I was born in Brittany, somewhere lost by the ocean. Very depressed and enable to create anymore. Old furniture, often carved and sometimes studded, filled my house. Heavy, made of solid dark wood, once the only wealth in homes, where studs were a display of prosperity. My family never owned a single stud. It obsessed me, nothing else made sense.
I couldn’t express myself, so I started hammering.
Each nail, both wound and healing.
Ritual and affirmation of existence.
Loud, imperfect, physical.
I started creating my own icons.
This rhythm also brought poetry, just as loud, hammered out on my typewriter. Another voice from a single practice, which feels intimidating to share with you, but I’ll try and post here.
I wish you a beautiful first day of September.
A bientôt,
Johanna
