Wednesday, May 20, 2020
A Span Well Spent
I don't know from where, nor do I know how the idea arrived, but I told myself just sit and write. Write every morning no matter what. Forget the content, forget if it is used, but write. The success of it would just arrive with the inspiration.
But I did little to set myself up for success. Nothing was ready. No fine instruments to jot down a thought. Every time I felt inspired to write, I instead actually started puttering around the house moving items from someplace to another in search of the illusive write mode equipment.
Then there were the responsibilities that weighed heavy on my mind. Oh how they always seem to present themselves. The obligatory necessities insuring they get done first. Yes, you eat, yes, you drink, bathe, wash, let the dog out. After that came the distractions. The email which has become auto pilot after the on button, when the intentions was to simply check the time on the phone. Highlighting the screen then brings to light the updates that have been waiting. Heaven forbid, they are postponed for and hour while jotting down something.
So the day came, after months of affirmations, write write write. "You were created to create" "You were made to share." However, you have to actually sit down and let the conversation spill out onto a page somewhere. Everyday convincing yourself that you have the power to do it & the skill, but then it's time for the fulfillment of the quest.
"Write", today! I am awake at 5:30 am with no hint of drowsy, no urging issues at the moment. Ignore the other obvious draining habits that hijack the minutes into a stream of nothingness. Sit down and write. And it came to me, the thoughts, the flow, but where on earth was a pen and which notebook would hold the treasure. Just write, even if you have to throw it away. maybe there is a sliver of something to spark the day or tomorrows day looking back. Just write.
The urge was so strong that I threw my bags and books out of the way to get to my canvas, an 8 1/2" x 11" legal pad and now for the words. How do I scribe them, "My pen, my pen where are you now, 'Where arte thou' my beloved pen?" It will take some deeper thought the next time I plan to manifest a new habit, I must also be specific about putting the equipment in the path to begin. For all the days I told myself "You must Write. You were meant to write", it would have been nice to also have the instruments ready to go as well.
As the components unite to finally consummate the intimate roller to fiber-bond, the white staring back up at me. It provoked a looming sense within me. For a second my thoughts went dark, in a flash I was thinking of the legacy lost that was etched in a myriad of composition journals that an old lady trembled over day after day. Had she done the same? Did anyone other than her value the words etched in love. Where did they go and were they preserved.
Will someone look at my words other that me and be able to grasp the driving force, the divine impulse to make sure they were captured for all time outside of this treasure chest called a brain. Lord, I hope so, but is it enough to simply write. to jot it down, to get it out to print it outside the body, to flow freely in time and pass on to no one. It is enough to leave the marks on the paper or the fonts on the screen if it relieves the ache of humanity and limits within oneself. If maybe someone will come across the old books, or heaps of letters noting the progression of ones personal theme or style. Simply the heart of the words. I still feel the necessary impulse to sit down and write releasing it into the universe.
Even if not ever viewed, or tasted or perused, it is enough. I write for me to be healed and whole and that makes it enough.