HeartSong (with disclaimers)

In the umpteen zillion blogs I have posted between here, MySpace, and MCMM, there are two that had to do with writer’s block. Both of those dealt with frustration and resolve to correct. With the whole blood-on-the-keyboard, head-banging exasperation that comes from an ill-timed combination of actually having the time to let the words pour forth but lacking inspiration.

What I am experiencing right now is different. There is no doubt in my mind that if I opened the file that contains my WIP I could pick up where I left off and add pages. No doubt at all. I could do it.

But I don’t.

There is a part of me that scowls at my not-writing self in the mirror and scolds in her silent mean-teacher-voice, “How dare you call yourself a writer! Every book on writing you have ever picked up said point blank on the first page: ‘Writers write.’ It’s as simple as that. Are you a writer, or not? If you are, you’d better get your butt in the chair and prove it!”

But right now I don’t feel the need to prove anything.

Because there’s something else happening in my head, and I don’t know what it is yet. It’s misty. Hazy. Still opaque. Unformed.

With everything that’s happened in the last few weeks, it’s no surprise to find my brain full to bubbling over with unformed thoughts. I could set them on my desk at school next to the unformed lesson plans I’ve taught, or on the kitchen table next to the unformed meals I’ve fed my family and I would have a perfect matched set of-- unformed stuff. (Okay, I swore I was going to write this blog without any disclaimers whatsoever. I read an article in something- probably “O” magazine- that talked about the way women precede or postscript their ideas with disclaimers or appeals for consensus, as if their opinion alone wasn’t enough to count. I decided to watch myself in my speech and writing and eliminate that tendency, because I knew when I read it that I am guilty of doing that to myself. BUT- I need to reassure anyone that has made it this far into my ramble that the kids did get taught, and my family has not starved while I have wandered through the world for two weeks in this slightly oblivious, obscured, amorphous state.)

And again with the disclaimers in case any of you are worried that I may be in need of psychological help or medication: I am okay. My family is all fine. Allen -AKA- FGEB/BFF is okay and we will be together for a long weekend in May. My occasional MySpace guest-blogger and very most favorite Cousin B is recovering from a huge, dangerous, blood clot in his leg following a minor outpatient hernia surgery last week, but he’s okay too.

There has been so much occupying my mind and heart these last few weeks, that the not-writing right now isn’t a concern. I feel like a mama bird sitting on the nest, incubating a clutch of precious eggs that will hatch soon. The little birds that emerge will not be wrinkly and naked; they will be beautifully formed, with iridescent feathers in colors from a spectrum heretofore unperceived by the human eye. When they open their tiny golden beaks to sing, symphonies will break forth and the world itself will pause a moment on its axis to revel in the glory of their song.

But for this moment I must be still. Patient. Serene. I must absorb the sounds and colors that surround me. I must close my eyes to memorize the play of light as it dances through the prism of my heart.