3.19.2011

Writing.  It has been a while.  A long while.  I’ve had my excuses.  My sad excuses for not taking the time to sit with the blank page and think.  Really think.  The truth is that the blank page used to give me comfort.  I’d sit there and revel in the possibilities that all that space could hold.  Words upon words, strung together to create meaning that I could call my own.  Even if I struggled, if the words didn’t make sense, if I ended with my forehead in my hands out of frustration for not knowing what came next … But eventually—when eventually came—the page would be filled, overflowing with words and thoughts and dreams and realities.  I knew that I had accomplished something.

Lately though, that ominous white space has a different effect.  I barely know what to do with it, let alone with myself.  Even the mere thought of sitting and writing makes my anxiety flare up and I want to run away screaming with my arms flailing wildly above my head.  

But, something about today made me realize that I still need this space, no matter how intimidating it can be at times.  My fingers now glide across the keys—nowhere near effortless—but they still work diligently, with promise and intention.  I think of all the time I used to spend here, in this space, and I can’t help but smile.  The familiarity if it, the process, the thinking, the feeling of letting the words unravel right in front of you.  I love this place, and suddenly, I’m just starting to remember that.