Drifting Through Peace of Mind

Another long lapse between my writings here and only sporadic entries in my journal lately. I've been avoiding the written word as if it was some kind of contagious disease waiting in the wings for me to walk on to middle stage and then to pounce on me unannounced. It's not good when that happens. After a while I start getting restless and I pace back and forth or I fill every minute of my time with "something" that will keep me occupied and that fits nicely under the heading of "things I have to do".

I've stood in long line-ups at the return counters in the stores to bring back things that didn't fit. As if they needed to be returned the day after Boxing Day. I've gone out and shovelled the snow that's been falling almost every day this week. As if it needed to be shovelled first thing in the morning when it's my most favorable time to write. I've cleaned the house, gone shopping, perused the Internet, read some, watched a few movies, made some phone calls, visited a few people and I've even, (and don't you dare tell anybody else this), yee gads, cooked a meal or two.

And all the time I've been doing these very important things, there's a message that keeps playing in my head and that I keep trying very hard to drown which says, "I need to write, I have to write, I must go write." And something inside me keeps fighting back with: "I'll do it later this morning or this afternoon, but then the morning and afternoon slip by and I think well after supper or tonight might be better. Things will be quieter then. Or I'll get up early tomorrow morning and do it then."

And while all this is happening I see an image of myself hanging on to one of those life savers in the middle of the sea and the ship I was on drifting further and further away and I'm feeling more and more disconnected and I'm yelling, "Wait a minute, come back, this is not what I want!" And it isn't. What I want is to give in to the need. I want to write but I feel myself holding back and I'm not sure why.

Maybe I'm scared. Scared that the words won't stop coming once they start stumbling out and maybe I'm even scared of what it is I have to say if I just let it happen. Maybe that's what it is.

I've been here before in this place of procrastination and avoidance. It's a familiar dance. I'm never quite sure what sets it off but I know the pattern now. I know the bubbling that goes on inside like a bromer-seltzer dropped in a glass of water. I know how it works at me making me more and more edgy, antsy, churned inside like butter in the making and that eventually I have to spit something out. Anything. Something.

Even if it's all mumble jumble like what I'm doing here at least it's something and I have to trust that it will be the beginning of what it is that needs to be said. I have to trust that it will grab me by the scruff of the neck and drag me back to the page and for now that's all I can do. And with that comes the beginning of my peace of mind.