Writing is an Honor


I need a pen-finger. Like a pen on the tip of my finger. Do they do that yet?

Now that I’m commuting a whopping 25-minutes (ick!) to work, I have this harrowing problem: I get ideas. Sentences. Words. PARAGRAPHS! while I’m driving but I rarely have the two things I need to capture them: a pen and a paper. I used to have a pen and a paper. Before we moved. Back when my life was predictable and manageable and I fancied myself a writer.

I don’t fancy myself a writer anymore. This? This is a test run. How can I fancy myself a writer when I’ve written no more than three poems in three months? Well: I could write about not fancying myself a writer anymore and see how that goes.

This is such a bloggy blog post and I don’t like it at all. What I love to feature is off-the-wall poetry and blast-from-the-past-memoir, but as a writer, I am committed to keeping my readers up-to-date and sharing feelings and images hot-off-the-press. Basically I feel the need to tell you where I’m at right now. This is not an obligation but a pleasure. These type of posts will come rarely, but they will come.

Okay, one thing I need to apparently work on as a newish again writer is staying away from cliches, wouldn’t you agree??  (see paragraph above.) (This is a learning process.)

That’s the thing: there’s a You. There’s a chance that You are somebody New, but that is not likely. More likely that You are somebody who already knows me very well. You are wondering, “How is Terah?” and “What is she doing??” Well my horoscope, although I haven’t checked it, must read: “Stop freaking out over nothing!” And it’s not the sabotage-type of freaking out this time. No, I’m not about to ruin anything, I swear. This is a full blown, it’s a full moon, everything is going fantastic and coming to fruition, I can’t wait to dig into my writing again, I can’t wait to do (a) again (b) again and (c) for the first time. This is an ecstatic period, and we (my boyfriend and I) are easing out of a rather long period of transition. This is a “I’m setting up my writing space and about to Tasmanian devil my way back into my story” kind of vibe.

But I won’t bore you. All that matters now is locating a pen and a pad of paper and keeping that shit with me at all times. The writer didn’t leave me. The writer has been banging on the walls of my brain screaming “Let me out for fucks sake, what’s the hold up???” The writer doesn’t exactly understand job changes or home changes or family changes or health changes, the important things that get in our way of writing, but in turn give us something to write about. But all that matters now is that I do. To me. All that matters to me is that I write. Writing is my first born. I’ve abandoned it and now it’s time to whiddle my way back into its life and make promises that I will keep. I intend to seduce writing into keeping talking to me like it used to. I still feel a deep need to engage with the world and I know there’s only one way I am meant to do that: with black ink and white pages.

Writing is a subtle yet BOOMING expression of self and art. An honor. Writing is an honor. In closing, your blessings are encouraged but whether they are articulated here or not: I feel them. I know you. You know me. Yes, I’m still here. No, my dreams haven’t changed. Haven’t even budged an inch.

I suppose I fancy myself a writer again (words came out.) Now all I need is a finger pen.


A windchime
shutters to life.
Little had I thought
of a windchimes need
for chaos and swirl.
“Be the windchime”
I realize
as practice closes
and in perfect timing I
am set to step into Now,
despite the unpredictable
circumstances and
those pushing undercurrents,
life’s unavoidable buoys and lifts,
life’s twisting gates,
opening and closing
with the weather,
with storm
“Be the windchime”
I realize
Make sweet sounds
in the turbulence
of your own life
not for others this time,
but for you

You are the windchime

Where Do You Go? (A Note on Solitude)

In the beginning of silence and solitude, it actually gets really loud. This is all the residual chatter and chimes pouring out, hesitantly, from your mind. This can take some time. These are nothing more than the bells and whistles of your life–the catch phrases and fillers, the advertisements and the one-liners you and your loved ones have been feeding you. Where do you go…my lovely?  Where do you go?

You almost have to cover your ears, only to realize it’s all in your head…and it’s actually really very quiet out for once. You’ve picked a nice spot. So you take your hands off your ears. You are kind of surprised and aroused by the solitude.

In the beginning of silence and solitude you are THUNDERED by your thoughts. I’d forgotten about that. It had been so long. The longer it’s been, the louder it gets I suppose.

You are smiling and alone.
That rare experience of being yourself, 
when knowing you are not being observed
and you really genuinely are free.
This is you
Ah, that feeling,
that knowing
that freedom
where do you go?
my lovely
where do you go?

I want to know

Reading at the Old School House



Authors Evening at the Schoolhouse | Junction City, Oregon | March 5th | 7 pm
91949 Purkerson Road, Junction City, OR, 97448

Please join us for the first annual Authors Evening at the Old Schoolhouse, featuring poetry by local poet Terah Van Dusen (Love, Blues, Balance and New Moon), prose by local authors Danuta Pfeiffer (Chiseled, A Memoir of Identity, Duplicity, and Divine Wine), Jacquie “Jax” Manning (Caribbean Shadows), Kathleen Cremonesi (Love in the Elephant Tent: How Running Away with the Circus Brought Me Home) and acoustic guitar by local musician Josh Pitney.

$10 entrance covers a lovely selection of desserts made with local  Camas Country grains, coffee and tea. Local Bennett Winery wines available for purchase by the glass. Proceeds go directly into the school fund to continue renovating this beautiful old schoolhouse into a community event center and home for the arts.

Space limited to 50 guests, so please call 541-357-5448 to reserve your tickets!


the most irresistible
place, the only space
where I wither and bloom
and tincture myself with
crystals and sage
and ice cream

where lamp chops
fry and soups wait patiently
on the stove top for no one
but us and company if we’re
lucky, if we’re not

It’s where I
begin again
where I end
where I cannot hide
where I can
where he kisses me
and promises me things
big things, unimaginable things
that he would never utter elsewhere
but home

it’s where I dream

it’s where I live the
dream too