For some reason, having a head that feels stuffed with cotton candy, muscles that are in a competition to see which can ache the most, and a spicy cough with little creatures and their sharp claws taking up residence in my throat and chest does not make for the will or fortitude to sit (lay) here on my bed and write something by turns funny, profound, endearing, whimsical, witty, thought-provoking, or even honest.
Lately, writing has taken too much energy for me to even contemplate sitting and thinking through topics for writing, much less actually sitting down at the computer or in front of a pad of paper and putting words down on the blankness.
I wonder why?
Well, since you asked, let me tell you what I think. I would say that it is because once I take that step, all bets are off. Even if I only write for myself, things will change. For me, writing is an act of creation, of clarifying, of whittling down and expressing the movements of life and Spirit within. As long as it is only in my mind, it is not reality. As we all know, reality can be frightening. At the very least, it can intimidate, shake us in our havaianas, toss us around and whip us up and down – a frenzy of options – beautiful, perfect, shining ideals, competing with the marbled lights and darks of broken humanity, looking for love and meaning in all the wrong places.
Today we talked about friends and friendships… there are so many I have let slide into shadows and smoke of what they used to be. Isolation is not usually good for the soul. But for me, that is often the easier choice. So, once again, trying to take the steps I know I need to, towards community, towards letting people know me, towards risk-taking and boldness, towards excitement and vision re-birthed.