As I sat down to write this essay a big sigh escaped my lips. Could I even do this? Write anything at all? The mere effort of beginning felt enormous, onerous, heavy, impossible. Where once the words spilled effortlessly onto the paper, now they seem lost. Are they hiding from me or have I lost the ability to call them forth?
I’ve had bouts in the past where starting a book or an essay is difficult, but this is different. Before, I wanted to write, and eventually the words revealed themselves. But this time the desire to write – the basic core desire that has always been a part of me – that desire has, like Elvis, left the building.
Why is that?
The last substantial writing I produced was comprised of two essays – “The Caged Bird” and “The Heavy Coat”. Actually, there was a third, “When the Muse Won’t Come,” but “The Caged Bird” and “The Heavy Coat” were authentic cries from my Soul. It should, therefore, be no surprise that I find myself presently in an emotional and creative desert.
I am waiting. I am waiting for events over which I have no control to unfold in my life. These events, which will come as surely as night follows day, will happen. I just don’t know how or when. And when these events over which I have no control happen, my life will be changed forever.
I’m not fearful of the change. I am prepared as best I can be for events over which I have no control, and which primarily affect another person. But the unknowing aspect is, I think, what has paralyzed my ability to write. That and the feeling of being powerless and trapped.
And waiting.