Writer's Unblocking.

I have no idea what to write about.  Last night I told Tim that I had writer's block and his swift and sure response was, "No you don't."  I love it when he does that, refutes me absolutely and with such confidence that I'd be a fool to think he wasn't right. 

And so here I sit, writing whatever comes out, just wanting to put something into the world, trusting that maybe if I just keep going the thing that's important will pop its pretty little head out. 


Lots of things have happened this summer.  Good things.  Here's a list of a few notables: 

  • Brandi Carlile came to our town to play a show.  All four of us got to see her, second row, and my kids knew the words to every song, Isla shouting and clapping the whole way through.  I cried, natch.
  • We got to house sit on Martha's Vineyard for two weeks .  I mean, what do you even say about a gift like that other than, "Thankyouthankyouthankyou," until your voice grows hoarse?  I watched my kids become base-level animals at the mouth of the ocean, watched them scream with joy into the waves and nearly lost my mind the feeling was so good.
  • Mumford & Sons played in Queens.  We went.  The cells in my body shifted and re-aligned and while the show itself feels like a hazy memory, the knowing that my soul feels when I've listened to them since is undeniable.  Something was activated and then ignited, a slow, lasting burn.

As we drove home from the Vineyard a few weeks ago, I started thinking about the goodness that the Universe continuously throws at me.  I thought about how I sometimes worry that I take it for granted, that I'm simply so blessed so much of the time that I've stopped fully recognizing a miracle when it's right in front of me.  And so I try to remain awed and grateful, and sometimes end up acting selfish and bratty.  I started wondering why I always feel so search-y, sometimes so lost, like something's missing. 

Because it doesn't make sense, really, to live right in the middle of such abundance and still feel like something's missing. 

And then, as I drove north toward home, it hit me hard:  

The difference between awareness and awakening is action.

Let me try to explain what I think that might mean. 

I can't simply sit back and welcome endless gifts into my open arms without then using my hands to create something.  I can't wait for tidy, prettily wrapped packages of dreams to appear on my blue front porch simply because I'm aware of the fact that they're possible.   

Awareness is an essential word in the poem, yes - nothing can hinge together without it.  But awareness, once realized, is not primary.  Action is what takes it up, moves it off of it's comfy seat, tells it it's time for more.  

I don't want to simply be aware of what I could do or be or make.  I will have wasted my life if, at the end, all I can see is what I could have done.

"Wake up, sweet one," I hear myself say. 

My response, again, today, is, "Okay."   

I fear that I'm not worthy of my big ideas, that they'll fall flat if left in my hands.  I worry that I can't simultaneously create a brand-new intensive and keep up with the laundry.  It makes my hands shake when I think about having time to create, worried that nothing will happen when it's go time.   

But still I will say, "Okay."