word. (on the exaltation found on the other side of writer's block)
It's been a long time that I've been looking for you. I understand that looking for you isn't like looking for something tangible; I really can't expect to find you under a pile of magazines or behind a sweater in the closet. When I was first started searching, I looked out. When that didn't work, I started looking in, but the problem was that when I looked in, I didn't sing to you. I clawed at you to come out. For years I did that, while you were hibernating. The wielder of a perfect combination of words, a message worth repeating, worth sharing. I tried, again and again, but it seemed that the more I tried, the less I actually liked what came out.
At one time in my life, I thought, I was a writer. It was what I did. Whether on a home turf beach, or as a silent stranger in a voluptuous city, or with orphaned chimpanzees on the rim of the Congo basin, where rainforest lightning storms pulsated the same electric heartbeat into every denizen in the jungle, I wrote. I wrote for the enormity of deafening sanctity, weeping in the pew of a humble village church up Keauhou mauka, and for the delicious, beckoning Kona sunset, still unmatched in the things that even its memory does to my heart. I know that I wrote because I have the journals to prove it, some stashed in Hawaii, some in Chicago, some in India. They may not weather the storm of forever-ness, but for a lifetime or two, they are there, my temporary mark on the world.
Then one day, I started writing less, and I discovered the very reason Buddhism says that detachment alleviates suffering. Why did I start writing less? I have no answer other than the one that says that change is inevitable, and no one thing will be that thing forever. But as I watched you slip away -- I am talking to you, writer -- my panic grew. Who was slipping away? Was it me? And if I slipped away for good--
Who was left?
I fought this, which seems silly in retrospect. A struggle against the current. Oh, if you spoke to me, I would have no hesitation telling you how important it is to surrender, really surrender. And yet, here I was, fighting what was happening, and in the process, living inside my tidy little lie.
I am a writer.
I am a writer.
The problem with living inside a lie is just that -- you are living inside of something. You are cloaked and suffocated, in a latex suit, fit perfectly to your own body. You never forget you are inside this suffocating thing. And the problem with the Truth is that it doesn't go away.
Still I sat in front of this same brick wall, rubbing it mercilessly, maniacally, forming blisters and then rubbing some more, thinking that if I worked at it hard enough, eventually I would release the storm that was building behind it. Blowing a sailboat across an ocean. Stretching a lifetime to an eternity. The dust fell softly at my feet (the sad degeneration of a fair queendom), fine white powder dust, ancient sands wrung through volcanoes and time, and with the dust accumulated the eventual shards and slivers.
And I kept cutting my toes.
The Truth was that it was all a mess of white smoke and I couldn't see a damn thing, but as the curtain began to clear, I realized that I could actually see something. There was something there. It had two legs, two arms, a heart, and it wanted to go somewhere. It wanted to sing something or maybe even yell something. It had blonde hair and a host of thoughts that jangled from one end of her head to the other.
My, oh my. It was me. And I was writing.
Well written piece of truthful introspection! Self discovery is part of the raison d'être.
No comments posted.
Recent PostsBlogs are for musings about monarchs ... right? The American way of life is not up for negotiations. Period. (or, a word on being our own heroes) Hahalua (Two Breaths) My Mother was a Master Gardener Mama Moja (My Mama) Otherness will find you. The Generosity Of Heartache – or – If You Know Grief, Then This Is For You 71 Candles (Today is your birthday) A Reverence of Botany Swaraj