Effective writing demands a free-flowing mind, a release of the reins on the beast, allowing the unbridled power of creativity to charge into chosen spaces. I find myself on the stallion’s back, ready to let the muscles in my hand succumb to burst into the unknown, and then…
“Mom, can I have a smodge. My yag hurts.” It’s Evelyn, out of bed for the third time, head poking around the corner. I halt the snorts and flinging of vile about to spew on the page to be a mom, to my little one who is not yet able to say the words “massage” and “leg.”
Am I artistically frustrated? You bet. The dream of writing creatively in an endless expanse of space and time, filling it with who knows what feels distant. What’s close at hand is how cold my house feels, the chopped lettuce awaiting the fridge, and the need to change out of the clothes I’ve worn for two days straight.
I find myself all scatter-doodle, thinking of how to parse what belongs to me in the swirling twister of thoughts and what belongs to others. In reality, it’s all mine, isn’t it? It resides in my mind.
Expressing myself on the page is challenging in this state. Every idea seems flawed, and the worst part is that my thoughts become judgmental, criticizing the perceived shortcomings of others. However right or not I think I am, stopping and smelling the roses in this space is unpleasant, no matter how justified I might feel.
How about I redirect this thought process in the future, because having not articulated it this way to myself before; I see how it’s not having the purpose I intended.
Lately, I’m not fond of myself. It’s the relationship I have is like the neighbor you encounter sporadically, exchanging obligatory “Tootles”, faking interest in the respiratory infection their cat Theodore supposedly has. Shouldn’t old Theo be gone by now, given his kidney failure that prompted the vet to recommend euthanasia? Poor Miss Reynolds seems indecisive about pulling the plug.
But I digress.
I understand there are seasons. Today, I recalled advice from a colleague regarding the ebb and flow of client work as a therapist. Back when I was a newbie, after only a handful of sessions in one week and not much more the next, I fretted over a bleak bank account. Richard, my seasoned colleague, spoke of seasons, a perspective I lacked in my new counselor shoes. With his career’s numerous ascents and descents, he offered a different outlook, one I revisited today. There are slower weeks and months; it’s not something to worry about. So I won’t. I’m simply transitioning to a more casual approach, and that’s perfectly fine.
Tootles. Love, Jaclynn
PS This post’s photo is of the cutest dang purse I’ve ever seen. Not mine. But oh so cu-uuuute!
Going On 40 