I’m gone fishing, in case you’ve wondered. My psyche needed some air and put up a sign. Experience has taught me to listen.
One day, hard-wired to my laptop in the café, the writing stopped. My eyes blinked at the screen, only to discover there was nothing to say.
Rat-tat-tat! Militant fingers soldiered on, castigating, violating the keys, but my essence was nowhere to be found. Like the wind through the trees, it was gone.
I hear a word.
The voice thumps in my ears, try, try, try.
Is it the work, its hidden layers prodding me? Is it the need to express? Or the desire to botox my self-worth and succeed, succeed, succeed? I have always felt a little lost without a story to tell, and suddenly, with all my might, I refuse.
My pal Joe the hugger puts down his coffee and opens his arms. Stop trying, he smiles, just be what is.
No pressure is a dream. No twitching, thrashing, wrecking words. No more blame or shame. Oh, my tender, voluptuous heart. The screen glows blankly, as the tip of my third finger hits delete.
Like life and death, the creative process is a beautiful mystery. I grow older, peace comes more naturally.
Inspiration by my girl Rashmi and her epic hair. My photos.
Some more of my musings about writing:
GOOD NEWS FLASH: You may have noticed here and on social media that I am an ardent #BernieSanders supporter. His spectacular rise on the political scene is a sign of vital change to come. I am deeply moved by the work ethic of his supporters, particularly the young, and by what they are bringing to the process. Like their mentor Bernie, I believe in the power of people to do good. I believe in miracles, too.
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