For some reason I am having a great deal of difficulty writing today. The post I had intended to put out yesterday didn’t materialize because my USB cable for my camera has broken (second time!) This means that I can’t upload the photos which I needed for my post. This will now have to wait until later in the week, hopefully!
I have a few writing assignments which must be completed within the next couple of days so I am panicking. This doesn’t help. I thought about sharing a poem but this isn’t working out either. I think the WordPress gremlins have leached their way out from my blog and into my brain.
The problem is, I feel I need to write something, I feel I need to write this.
Brain fog. It’s all pervasive today. I want to escape. I’m starting to think that I can’t write. I’m crashing and burning. The words aren’t coming and I feel stifled and blunt, like an old knife that has sat in the kitchen drawer for years, buried and hidden underneath all the newer, better, contemporary utensils, and which has only just been rediscovered.
“Oh, so that’s where that old knife has been? Well, darn me. Look at the old, worn out thing. Time to toss it.”
Blunt, useless, rusty around the edges and so needs to be thrown out. Just not cutting- edge, not sharp enough, no longer up to the job. That’s my mind today. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Where have all my great ideas gone?
I would like to wash them in boiling hot water until they are as pure and as white as the heavens, and hang them out to dry so that every last trace of a thought can be bleached out by the glare of the sun, never to be seen again. Then I can at least know that they have disappeared into oblivion and I don’t have to keep scratching about in my mind to find them.
Maybe then I can begin again.
Putting all that to one side, now, today, I want to walk up a hill, surrounded by the shadow of ancient trees, creaking and groaning in the woodland as they bend over to whisper their secrets into my empty heart. Then, and only then, I might remember the endless wonder of a childlike faith.
Only then will I hear nothing but the wind.
Beauty of a stone creation, crafted on the back of someone’s pain and longing. Prayers etched on tablets, kept open for people they never knew to read, to weep, but always, always, to have hope. Even when drained of all that was once so real, still, there remains a scant of hope.
Look then, here, faded words given over to a memory shared freely with us who remain.
An inscription written by a son in honour of his father and the love of nature and all things bright and beautiful which was instilled within him. A monument erected in his honour, hidden deep within the very woodland he so loved to explore.
When the woods no longer hold their cool and calm, can I walk in the light of a house on the edge of the world, giving meaning to it’s warnings and it’s danger, never wavering or running out of purpose? This is how I stand still and strong.
Then, dare I ask for a memory of the open sea as it crashes on the shore where my children used to play?
Looking back, looking forward, only breathing now, today.
This is where I taste the salt-pressed air and breathe the oxygen from the promise of this day.
There is a path that I follow, I want it to lead me in the right way.
I don’t want to veer off and sabotage myself with meandering thoughts of self-inflicted doubt and yet more doubt.
I want the light to keep me warm and safe, insulated from the blight of dark and despair.
Can you help me find my way home as it awaits my return, where I can sit beside the fire, toasting crumpets and sipping tea, hiding away yet still you are with me?
I’ve walked down this path so many times before. It clouds my vision, it steals my inspiration, it darkens my view so that I cannot see the very thing which stands before me, though it is as clear as the blue sky and as strong as thunder. I look at it with deadpan eyes, standing without question, without longing, without a dream.
The silence broods beside me like an unopened letter sitting on the kitchen table, which, when opened, will bring only the sigh of a world-weary heart. So better not to open it then. Keep it right where it is.
Best not to stir the waters, my dear.
So then, I look to the path and I take a walk and I say a prayer. I think of the words to a hymn giving nothing but praise.
Above all else, I love and I have hope.
I write even now although I know not what.
This is the writer inside, the very real me.
This is what I write and share with you all this day.