A few weeks ago, the weather warmed up past pleasant and yoga fell off my morning alarm list. Well, in any event, I grunted, flicked the switch, threw off the covers, and rolled my face back into the pillow. This also reflects my writing process, but not in the way you might be thinking.
The internal workings of my creative process have started chugging an ancient engine, somewhere deep down in the back of my belly. It’s such an old and forgotten room in the house of me, that the accumulated muck of ages is still dampening the sound of its voice. But, I am aware of a muted whisper.
So, I have been withdrawn. I closed my studio door. I even missed posting an article here last week. I want my own approval for the work. The validation I desire is mine, and this is an alarming shift in my psyche. What the hell am I supposed to measure my worth by now?
I ended the day, yesterday, with exclamations of my awesome creativity, and a fist pump over finally freeing up and openly writing magic into the draft manuscript of my current novel-in-progress. Here is a note I pinned to one of the scenes:
Stop being so fucking mysterious, Sondra. Just write the damn magic.
I freaked out this morning over my toast: I’m too loud, too much, too weird. What about that person who responded to a comment I posted on a YouTube video, “Are you high?” And, I was devastated. No, I’m not high, this is me. I am exuberant. I use six adverbs and four adjectives in one sentence to try to share my boundless love and raw excitement. I really do see the good in the world, all the time. So, maybe that does relegate me to your realm of what is crazy.
It’s taken forty years, but I’m hearing voices now, and I plan to pay attention. To me, that is cause for celebration and a few more descriptive phrases.
The alarm was back on this morning. My lymph system celebrated our return to the yoga mat with a nauseous hooray once I was again vertical and heading for the shower. Like I said, the accumulated muck of ages is shifting. Body, mind, and spirit.