“Let the world burn through you. Throw the prism light, white hot, on paper.”
Have you ever had so much happen, so much change, that you couldn’t begin to put it into words? This is where I find myself currently. I have retired, moved out of my apartment, stayed with dear friends whose generosity knows no bounds and traveled to Minnesota and back, all in the space of a few months. What I thought was my plan wasn’t a viable plan and what I expected didn’t happen and what I didn’t expect to happen did in fact happen. So, just another day of being human and making plans like a Boss, even though Life/the Universe/God/Fate has completely different plans for me. I have had many experiences worthy of writing about and yet, once the fingers are hovering over the keys, the wellspring of creativity is found to be bone-dry. Lots of scattered thoughts, fractured feelings, moments of abject terror, where I question every choice I’ve made, every step I’ve taken and every time I moved, figuratively and literally. Yet nothing appears; the white space stares back at me, much like the abyss and the blinking cursor mocks me, marking the seconds that pass; no letters to form words and thus, no story told. It’s an unwelcome block that I haven’t had the time, inclination or wherewithal to do anything about.
What I realize is that no matter how smart I am, no matter how assured and self-confident I appear, I am human and therefore flawed. I have overloaded the process of processing by purposefully not allowing myself the time or space to allow these changes to sink in, in the hopes of avoiding regrets or examining the reasoning behind these choices. Like most things we run from, eventually they catch up to us and are much larger and more demanding when they find us. My need to escape is nothing exceptional in the scope of human behavior, but I am growing weary of running from things, only to be ambushed at some later date by the very same issue, wearing a different face and pissed off at being made to run after me.
So, here I am, stumbling over words, trying to find words for thoughts that are not fully formed, feeling a waterfall of emotions, too fast to identify each one, only a jumble of opposing feelings and overall confusion. But it feels good just to try. Some times that’s all I can do is try. Try to learn from my misadventures, try to continue to make leaps of faith, try to not control everything/everyone. Try to be better, try to forgive more readily and wholly. Try to be grateful, even for things that don’t seem as blessings at first glance. Try to be the person that my closest friends and family believe me to be, try to be the woman that I promised my younger self to be; strong, compassionate, wise and warm. Try to be the writer that I want to be and that means writing, even when no one will read except me.