I’ve literally spent hours trying. How many hours, I don’t want to know.
This morning I’m sure I’ve sat here for an hour and a half, hoping for the inspiration to write. I started a couple of things. I opened something I started several days ago, but found I had nothing to add.
I’m not upset about it, although I do feel a tiny bit of concern that I’m not upset. That counts, right?
It wasn’t so long ago that I thought of writing as an obligation. Not a chore, mind you, but an obligation, almost like homework or piano practice. And, I think that feeling of responsibility led to improvements. I feel I’ve found my voice.
Unfortunately, that voice just doesn’t have a lot to say…
Oh, I could share my joy in chicken farming. My four birds are just spectacular. I’m amazed at how much I enjoy caring for them. Given the length of my attention span, I should have lost interest by now, as the electric keyboard in the top of the playroom closet, and the paints and easels stored in the garage will attest. But I haven’t. I love visiting them, feeding them scraps of tasty left-over morsels, and collecting my bounty. I get eggs everyday. I’ve even started giving them away, which has led me to dream…
Suppose instead of giving them away, I sold the flowers and vegetables from my gardens and the eggs from my hens. The idea was originally Shane’s, upon first hearing of my plan to raise chickens. Excitement spewed from the upper register of his little-boy voice as he talked of “having our own business”.
I can conjure a roadside stand; a wooden one, very rustic, with hand-painted lettering. I’d hang flowers in aluminum buckets on either side. There’d be towers of large, red tomatoes, bowls of beans, handfuls of herbs, and cartons of softly-shaded green, pink, and brown eggs. I don’t know…maybe.
I could share the details of the wedding reception I’m holding for my son. But, let’s face it, unless you’re related to the participants or have mistaken this for one of the hundreds of wedding blogs I’ve skimmed over the last several weeks, you probably wouldn’t be interested.
My grandson came to visit. He stayed a week, and stole my heart all over again. He’s coming back for the reception. I can’t wait. And while that’s nice to know, it’s not particularly interesting.
I know what the problem is. Over the course of the last couple of weeks, it’s become blatantly apparent. I’m afraid I’ve succumbed to the same malady that killed Paula Cole’s singing career. Paula sang at full volume, and I sang along, “Where have all the cowboys gone?…ah woooo”. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Yeah! I remember that song! Whatever happened to that girl?”
I’ll tell you what happened to that girl. That girl got happy. Ok, she also “found” God. But, mostly, she just got happy. Finding God is not such an accomplishment. After all, God’s usually not the one who’s lost. Getting happy, is a whole other thing, especially for women like Paula and me.
Getting happy takes you outside yourself. Getting happy demands participation and encourages activity. Getting happy turns the dimmer switch up a notch or two, brightening even the dark recesses where muses tend to nest.
My desk sits opposite a bank of windows that look out on my front yard. The view is never more beautiful than it is this time of year. The greens are greener. The trees are taller, flowers bloom, bushes burgeon, and wild things scamper from one growing thing to another.
It is through these windows that I sometimes see what’s on my mind. Once, when it snowed, I found a poem. The cherry tree on the corner of my lot sparked a short story. Sometimes I see through the scenery and find feelings.
Lately, as I watch birdhouses for signs of inhabitants, I notice the way sunlight hits the tops of tree leaves, artfully spreading shadow beneath. For now, there is no angst hiding in those shadows. For now, the road in front of my house isn’t a way to get away, but rather the way I came in. And, I’m happy to stay.
It’s good to be home.
Are We There Yet? 