I’ve had a document open since the 4th of July with title and picture in place, ready for me to write this post.
Each day since, I’ve sat down in front of a blank page. I’ve stared. I’ve thought. I’ve thought about what I’m thinking. I’ve done the self-talk to convince myself: This is going to be the day.
It’s been over two weeks of this routine.
Usually, a blank page excites me. Since I was a child, a blank page has always represented endless possibilities. Lately, a blank page has felt like … just a blank page.
Today is the first time words have come out.
While it’s true that my head is still a bit scrambled due to the accident in April, I think there’s more to it where this particular post has been concerned. I had what I can only call “an experience” over the holiday weekend. I don’t often use the word profound, but this was. I felt something. I made connections I hadn’t before. Parts of what lay within the scope of my physical senses came into crystal clear focus while others seemed to fade to nothing. Invisible. Inaudible.
It came in pictures. It came in inklings and suspicions that burgeoned into something close to ideas. It came in emotions.
The problem is that it did not come with words.
It has felt like it needs to be written. I tried getting around it and on to other topics, chalking it up as perhaps something that should remain with me alone. But it has stayed put, unyielding, like an avalanche that simply has to be cleared from the road if there’s to be any hope of moving forward. And yet in the last 24 hours, a realization struck me: I’ve actually been afraid to put it to words …