I've been in a creative funk this past month. I show up to my desk nearly every day only to stare out the window. Finally I breathe in and remember that the Great Creator is my source. Then I accept that my soul is working on other things that are deeper than the jumble of scribbles left on the page. I wrote a poem about the process:
Here I am again,
staring out the window,
sitting at this tattered desk.
The coffee cup is empty.
A soft cloud is hovering over the field.
Mist is mourning the sun.
The day is spread out before me.
I have a calling to create something beautiful.
Yet here I am, waiting, again,
creating only a jumble of thoughts,
catching empty space after
the memories and schemes have fled skyward.
Mist rises eventually.
The sun is coming, someday,
out there, in here.
The blazing sun will burn into Autumn.
Then comes the end of thought.
Then comes winter.
How can I make beauty
from the shrugging silence?
I have become the ghost writer,
the one who sits here behind the glass,
day after day wanting to be seen.
It feels like it’s only me
seeing the world rise and fall,
day after day, season after season.
All the good people are working out there,
making contact with impermanence
and thinking that their solid lives are real.
Me, here, an idiot watching the mist
rise and fall in the middle of July,
feeling winter drifting all around me.
It’s the same pattern here
as in the whole of my life:
Be the a nature boy who dreams a world
back into orbit while the busy people rush by
so importantly on their errands,
while I am lost in the silence
of a rare summer mist shimmering
with the beautiful impossibilities of snow.
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