See what I mean?
I’m even confused about whether or not I’m confused.
(Actually, yes– there is. Not all of us can look quite as adorable as you, Saint Henry of the Perpetually Perplexed). But it’s not even so much the outside appearance as it is the disconnect between my inner world and the physical reality around me.
Last week, as I traveled through the blogsphere– much like some of you wander your city streets, glancing in shop windows and stopping in a cafe for coffee with steamed milk– I came across two different blog posts that spoke directly to me in a way that felt they were addressing the very same thing I have been grappling with lately.
(I write ‘grappling with lately’ when inside my head screams– HELLO, you have been wrestling with this sticky taffy pull of an angel since the beginning of freaking time, it feels like– ahem).
One post was from Zan and it sent a electric jolt to my spirit in the best way– it woke me up, it spoke my truth, it made me feel less alone. (Below is only a tiny excerpt– you need to read the whole post to see what I mean).
Why do we do what we do? And must we, really? Creativity can be a burden or a joy, but either way it’s a process, not just a natural bodily function (excepting maybe Tracey Emin’s bed). I’ve been taking comfort lately in biographies and memoirs of artists, in discovering how art came into this world, sometimes by accident, mostly by hard work. These accidental, easy scribblings on this page are but a joke.
Earlier, I had read Susannah’s post which connected deeply to that raw, stripped place we can all get to when our creative longings are dashed onto the frozen field of our daily life where things feel hard, barren and meaningless. (I’m not saying that’s what Susannah wrote, but that’s what it evoked in me– again, in the best way– in a way that helped lessen my sense of isolation and discouragement).
For example, this weekend I was writing fluently, seeing my family, floating around my flat feeling on top of my game. Today, however, I am ready to jump out the window and end it all. I am sick of my own miserable company and have been self-medicating with coffee and toasted tea cakes since I woke up. No writing done, feeling like I’ve let myself down, cowering as the shoulds gleefully beat me with a stick. Hormones and stress are a horrible mix. AMEN, sister.
But here’s the thing– because I just want to write them.
I just want to write them, reason enough, no?
In happier, less angsty, news– I seem to be revelling in the solstice season. Although I don’t have any kind of history with holiday decorating or making merry at this time of the year– December 2010 has popped open with all manner of creative mojo.
Cookie baking, blue lights twinkling, party-going, and even some birch bark messaging.
See what I mean? Just a big spiralling mess of a day, of a week, of a month– I should just give over to it and stop trying to shape a damn snowball out of it, already, right? But wait, am I the only one who would like some clear tracks to stretch out ahead of them?