Unknown

From the following prompt in Monica Wood's Pocket Muse on page 1... as good a place to start as any...

What are you waiting for? If not now, when?

Easter came a bit early for my nieces when we visited this weekend. We stuffed plastic eggs with candy, snapped them shut, and concealed them in bushes and tall grasses around the yard so that the treasures inside were doubly hidden. It was really no big mystery what they would find inside the eggs - one shake would reveal the ones with jelly beans, and after about the third peppermint patty it really just came down to process of elimination between two possibilities. Still, each new egg held the possibility of unknown.

The unknown can intrigue us, tempt us, or frighten us. It is the contents of the iconic "box of chocolates," the unseen future, and the missed opportunity. It is always a gamble whether or not to reveal the secret or stay oblivious. It sometimes seems safer to stay unmoving in our comfort zone rather than venture out into the new.

Sometimes, change is forced upon us. My best friend found out she was pregnant around Christmastime ("the best Christmas present ever," she said) and whether she wants it or not, the unknown is stretched out before her. She will know pain and worry, joy and happiness, smells and sounds like she's never experienced before. Fortunately, I find that she is embracing the whole idea - this week she finds out the baby's gender. Armed with this small piece of knowledge, she will go forth and face what is coming.

I'm ready for change, but it seems it's not ready for me. I'm tired of waiting. I'm ready now. I want to be healed, hired, and heard. Right now, these things are beyond my control, so I have to live with the unknown wrapped around me like a shell. The best I can do is wait with giddy anticipation for the mystery that will be revealed when the egg hatches.

one small step

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

- Lao-tzu, Chinese philosopher

Even the most monumental tasks begin with just one small step forward.

I've decided I will try to tackle the ideas & inspirations in the Pocket Muse by Monica Wood as a source of inspiration for weekly writing.

 I think this guide would fit in nicely with Leah's Creative Every Day Challenge, as both seek to kick the stagnant writer in the butt and get the creative juices flowing.

the best de-motivation

Where it hurt it was intense; a stinging, burning sensation that was all-encompassing. But that pain radiated and rippled, until she could feel the shivers running up her spine and the hair standing up on her hot neck. Her body was sensitive to each nerve ending, but she was heavy and sluggish. Limbs were slow to react. Eyes were droopy and unfocused. Could her body handle this?

___

It's that day again, the time to be creative... only I'm not really feeling the creative vibe above the pain from the kidney stone my body is currently trying to rid itself of. So I thought I might get a bit creative in trying to describe this gut-wrenching feeling...?

I've never seen pain as that much of an inspiration, which is somewhat of a shame, I guess, since it's something we all experience. We can't all sit on the pink-sanded beaches of Hawaii and smell the ocean breeze or stand amid the green atop a cloudy mountain in Ireland. But we all fit into the basic range of human emotions and tactile responses.

And we all have days when we are almost too lazy to care. When the mere thought of lifting yourself out of bed is exhausting. Or excruciating.

Here's to those.

copy. write. infringment.

I find comfort in the safety of anonymity. It is the paranoia that surrounds me and keeps my thoughts safely to myself. And I wonder why there is more fear in sharing? What good do ideas do when locked inside, gathering dust and haunting the tired writer's mind.

These words that rattle and clamour against the skull like unsettled spirits. But these ghosts are mine. I am still too anxious to set them free.

I discover that writer's block comes in two forms: the absent genius and the possessive muse. The turn of phrase that gets past is not the first to be written. The best is kept for herself. Like a hen, she sits on her words waiting for brilliance to hatch.

Newborn, I will brand these letters. And the world will know they are mine.

- wit -

Fractured Shelter

My nest has fallen from its tree.

She isn't the me I know. Her ink has dried up. Words flowed from my lips soft as rain. I wrapped lyrical phrases around me like a blanket. My pen was always moving. She is a fractured shelter.

She gathers twigs to weave together, but the winds of change are blowing too hard in these stormy days. She is naked and hollow, the cold blowing right through. My pages are missing. They are leaves scattered to the wind.

We huddle inside and wait for Spring.

- wit -