Writer's Block

Sometimes the right words sneak into my mind just when I need them the most. Wandering ideas and nomadic sentences with no clear beginning, middle or end spin in smooth circles round my mind; tender thoughts and sweet reminders gently unwind stubborn remnants of the everyday grind. Words of unexpected poetry and rhyme offer the tiniest window into my sentimental childhood, a time when no dream was unattainable and my curiosity was inextinguishable.

It takes but a single adage to grace my stories with unexpected enlightenment, to move me when my heart sinks like stone, to unravel my tangled emotions, to smooth the skeptical furrows of denial and doubt from my tales. It takes but a shred of inspiration to sweep me beneath the wings of wisdom, allowing me to send a message through my poems. It takes but a touching memory to fill my pen with ink made to leave behind a long trail of letters taken from the classics, words borrowed from the ‘golden rule’, phrases and similes crafted from years of pain and personal experience.

But just as quickly as my story begins to fly off the page with eloquence, lightning clips its wings and it is shipped right back to the ground, dense like lifeless prattle. Formidable fate rolls in, and I am left stranded in the rain. I stand, for the thousandth time, atop the old writer’s block to avoid the flash flood, too afraid to jump off in fear of what I might discover in my reflection, in fear of failure. Although I am drenched with disappointment at the loss of my rhythm, my inspiration has run dry, and all I can do is stand atop the writer’s block in frustration, wishing I had an umbrella to protect me from the rain. At this moment, I realize that it is not dry that I am seeking; I must embrace the storm.

I finally muster enough confidence to move, wringing out my shirt in hopes to fill a barren well of words with the very element that is holding me back.  There is raw emotion in my movements: desperation, helplessness, vulnerability and fear as I try to hold my own against the wind. New words fill my well of inspiration with the heavier side of life that nobody likes to look at, but at least its weight keeps me grounded.

In my desperation, I hold my arms out and crane my head up at towards sky, asking questions to stay alive. How many hours have we spent in breathless pursuit of our very own pot of gold, when 'x' that marked the spot had already been etched into our soles? How many days have we wasted in vain, trying to solve the puzzle of our purpose, when it turns out that some of the pieces were not supposed to be found? How many years have we spent in fear of the moment we would brush shoulders with death, when his presence had been trailing our shadows all along?

The clouds gradually dissipate and my words flow like sunbeam streamers, breaking free from the storm. I am suddenly grateful for creativity’s force as it sheds light on a gray situation, pulling the seed of a story like a raindrop into my palm, a product of my musings, rewarding me for my struggles atop the writer’s block. I marvel at the unassuming appearance of my tiny jewel as compared with its vast history, a lifetime of lessons. I ask more questions and marvel yet again at how many people have walked the path of life mistaking this gem for another craggy pebble. I wonder just how many seeds of hope we have kicked aside on our morning commute as we rattled off daily to-do lists, chasing endless deadlines, eyes squinting and focused in search of the answer, the very crux of our existence, completely unaware that our stories had been written in invisible ink up in the sky all along, revealed by the crack of dawn each and every morning only to the rare few who stood long enough to notice.

Questions rain down, and finally my thirst for words has been quenched, not necessarily with answers, but at least with new sentences of which I am able to stitch together a rain jacket to weather the next storm atop the writer’s block. Soaked with fresh insight, I remember just how fortunate I am to have finally opened my eyes wide enough to recognize my muse in the midst of the rain.