Creative Constipation

I went to sleep somewhere just before 2am. Which isn't all that out of the ordinary for me, it has to be said. I'm a night owl of the first order and I had things on mah mind. But when I woke at 6.30 this morning, my night owl tendencies became rather irksome.

Then the mind did switch in as soon as the peeps flew open, and yea, it did start rankling and poking, prodding and seething at my life - thinking as it does that it holds the power of change and control when really, while it has a whole lot of good things going for it, change doesn't seem to be one of its better abilities. It's better suited to the more practical things in life, and leave the important stuff to the heart and the spirit. But lately, my mind doesn't even seem to be able to do anything much practical outside of its paid work. Completing anything resembling a to-do list seems to be beyond its ken.

It doesn't matter how long the list is. If it's a list of one, I just can't seem to get it done, or started even. And while I'm there, I'm not all that good at doing the bit in the middle, either. But if I manage to get over that hurdle, there's the end bit to contend with. And I'm not much good at the end bit, either. Do you see my dilemma, o reader of my blog?

I writhed into my pillow this morning, "Aaagh, Papa. Help! Pliz! I feel like I don't know where I'm going ... rudderless." That's it. (And no, that's not an indication of how I'm going to be voting this weekend, because I won't be voting. I forgot to put my reenrolment form in, and so now my vote for the Greens with preferences going to Labor - as if there is really any difference between Labor and Liberal anyway - shall not count).

When I was sick over winter I would do that thing that is so good when you're sick, projecting forward to when you're not sick. I thought, "If I wasn't sick, I would be writing right now, feeling as I do that I am coming into a new period of creativity where I am going to grow as a writer. Oh! How dandy and fine it shall be when I am well and I shall be able to write again! And oh! How dandy and fine it shall be when it is Spring and I shall be able to write again!" And I would trip through meadows of flowers in my projections of what my Spring would be like.

So far, it's more like walking through a concrete jungle that has a few piles of dog poo hanging around the edges. What gives, dear innards?

I feel like I am at a point in the journey where I really can't see what is ahead at all. Well, as if we ever really can, but sometimes you've got a bit of vision, you know you're walking into stuff that God has prepared for you (look, here's one I prepared earlier!) But I don't feel any of that at the moment. Not that I'm stressing about that. I'm beginning ever so slightly to get to know a couple of God's 9 million facets. I know he's up to plenty. He always is. Probably even especially is when we're (a) suffering real bad or (b) flailing about rudderless or (c) flat with no idea what to do next. I'm not worried or concerned about being in this position. This is just par for the course. It's necessary. In some ways all of those 3 things can be indications that we are right on track, right in the middle of God's dark forest for us. Following the breadcrumbs.

I think somehow that my creative block may be linked with my propensity to be dishonest with myself about what I'm feeling if it doesn't line up with what I think or hope or really want to be feeling, or not feeling, as the case may be (the shoulds still pop up from time to time, try as I might to swat them with a should swatter, or spray them with should killer. Those beasties multiply in the night like Gremlins). How easy it is for us to try to skim over our lives without stopping to inspect what it is our bodies are telling us, to grab the thread and follow it inwards and see what it's core is and be honest about what we see and turn, and be healed (or comforted at the least). How strange it is that we do that, being as it is a form of emotional leprosy when our hearts are screaming out at us to pay attention to this, this, this, and we squash it because it is inconvenient. Or because we don't want to pay attention to it because it makes us feel vulnerable. Problem is it festers and rankles and goes down deeper and then one day we are left wondering why we feel so bad. Time for some centering prayer. And honesty with myself.

I am so exhausted I feel like I am gently swaying in my seat. Methinks maybe not going to work today is an entirely feasible proposition