Then to Now
9 January, 2014 § 1 Comment
From the then of last May until the January of now.
This may be the longest stretch of weeks linked together in which I have failed to put down words in any particular creative order, unless you count to-do lists, meeting agendas, (very infrequent) FB status updates, or email communication — the latter of which has also been sporadic and consistently delayed, much to the chagrin of my long-distance community. While I have never been listed amongst the most enthralling or disciplined of writers, my comfortable, albeit somewhat sputtering, routine of rumination leading into the occasional translation of a paragraph here or there seems to have dried up and tapered off altogether. Odd.
As to why, exactly, I find I’m not quite sure. There is much in my day-to-day rhythm that is familiar, contented and carrying continuity with years past — so perhaps some of the silence of the past 8 months has stemmed from a desire to simply be present as much as from a hesitancy to lapse into unhealthy, mawkish transparency in this particular space. On the other hand, the year has also contained numerous and at times overwhelmingly powerful undercurrents of experiencing, feeling, learning/unlearning and questioning. I’m not exactly sure if I have found the courage or taken the time to sit, form the shape of names and allow myself to fully embrace in the middle of the tug and pull. In fact, I’m quite sure I haven’t.
Regardless of the why, I am, I finally acknowledged to myself yesterday, suffering from acute writer’s block. Or something. I chewed on this thought, acknowledged it was one of no great significance to anyone other than myself, and rounded our street past the small taqueria at the corner with its unpredictable hours and weirdly blinking yet stubbornly cheerful lights
While I mulled over images of untouched pages with empty lines and blinking bars on bright computer screens and piles of words hidden in corners, my shoes continued to lead me down the uneven sidewalk next to the red brick parsonage hedged in by whitewashed statues, small gray pebbles and colorful annuals before eventually making an unconscious left turn, crossing the open stretch of soccer field and middle school angst, and shoving open our slightly rusted, wild berry-entwined gate with a careless kick.
I suppose — sometimes — all that is required is to simply start again and move forward.
The door knob turns. My right foot steps up. And then my left. I cross the threshold. I am home.