I am perfectly fine, focused on my next step and ready to be a writer. I am really angry, bone tired and sad. I am holding grudges and hurtful words, hoping they will marinate into something neutral. I spent three years working with blind determination on a home goods business, knowing all along that it wasn’t my destination.
Now that I’ve committed to writing I don’t know what to say. I sat above my keyboard yesterday and stumbled through the beginning of an essay on the sun. I worship the morning light but all I could type was dribble, dribble. Then I went to Lowe’s, feeling like I was at the bottom of a submarine, worried that a depression was sinking in. I am petrified when this happens because I never know if it’s a passing moment, a day, a season. I do the best job of drop kicking an oncoming episode when I rest and remind myself that being sensitive and mood swingy is who I am. Sometimes it’s even OK.
As wacky as it sounds, I have three wise birds who rest in a nest on top of my heart. They always know what to do, telling me with their wings. Maybe they’ll tell me what to write, but I kind of doubt it. My guess is that they’ll tell me to sit quietly and let the words find their way.