I have my tea, I have my iPod running through its list of old love songs and punky rock ballads. The lights are dim, the night is quiet and slightly soaked with rain- the timing is perfect. Blog, let’s talk. It’s been weeks since I’ve been able to scrape together enough minutes or words to make a decent conversation, but that’s OK. Somehow I know, someday, I can simply pick up the string of thought like it belonged to some long abandoned knitting project and start it again, loop upon loop, stitch after stitch, thought after thought.
My writer just has not forgiven me yet for accidentally erasing three long years of work. I don’t blame it. I don’t forgive me either. The words seem to sit in the far corner of my mind, just out of reach of pen or page, sitting- waiting- mistrusting. I coax, I think, I beg- but they come out from behind the block so unwillingly it stings. I may be able to persuade enough of them out to make a mediocre paragraph, but what I have to say seems so precious that as every word I am able to write falls out into the light I quickly snatch it back up, jealous that anyone else’s eyes might land on it. These things I tuck back in another corner and they wait as well, willing to be written, but I am the one that hesitates. It’s just no good.
So what’s to be done? I drink my tea, I sing along with the love songs and think about serenading the clouds outside, maybe I’ll knit for a while.