It’s not writer’s block. It’s writer’s breath.
And I’m taking it.
Last time I finished a book, I started immediately on another one — an anthology for which I was contributing editor. I didn’t take the time to relish in the collection of essays I’d published or to rest my mind and soul. My dad was dying then, and I needed a distraction. Winds of change were blowing, and I was tumbling wherever they took me.
Now I’ve finished this new book I didn’t want to write. I didn’t want to talk about what it was like to lose a spouse, I didn’t want to keep reliving those feelings I was putting on the page, in writing, editing, revising, pushing myself through the tangle of pain again and again. But others kept prompting me, and it turns out, I did have a message to share. And that message was: As I tumbled in the winds, I had my hands wide open and I was groping and grabbing at life, and as I did so, I built a new life around me without even realizing what I was doing.
I pulled up my soul in the process of writing that message, and now I need to put it back in — the emptied me. And I need to tap REFRESH.
What do I want to do now? Tabula rasa. Clean the slate. Look at the world around me, look anew. See what’s there and what matters to me. Most of all, I want to move slowly in my world. And notice. Start in my own back yard. In the Medicine Wheel with its parsley, sage, rosemary, spearmint, and thyme, and a Rose of Sharon.
I planted some broccoli in the wheel yesterday. I’ve never planted broccoli before. I want to see how the stalks form. I want to watch it grow. I want to write about the wonder of a simple thing.
Take a breath in, let it out, do something different.