Word soup

For the last few days, my mind has been in a deep dive of thought and good company. A richness of conversation.

Any effort to write, however, ends in hours wasted and frustration. Start again.
And again.
Start again and again and again.
A blustery ocean of words well against the dam with no channel for connection.
Words, storm debris, caught in the surf and trees littering the landscape.

So many words. A word soup.
Each attempt to write has become a word soup
devoid of nourishment.

I thought photos might help sort out the wash
swirling eddies of thoughts crashing day and night
just short of the channels of understanding.


Quiet. Stretch. Unfurl. Hold. Make Space. Downward Dog.




Have I done my best? Time passing. So many unknowns. Dusk. Oklahoma.




Homeward traveling. Wide open spaces. Adventure! Go. Flint Hills.




Thoughts still pooling. Swirling like the ty-d-bol rowboat. Relief welcome. Direction. Determination.


They say writers should write each day. 
I say writers should also read each day.
What does it say when you can neither read nor write for a lengthening season?

One thing about this time where thoughts refuse to line up in their rows and universes: a wearied willingness to “go with it.” After many weeks of wrestling with the written word and limping away with a crushed hip, I’ve allowed my little dinghy to float and sway on the waters.

When you have no understanding of the stars, compass and sextant; or destination, it makes sense to reserve a bit of energy – stop fighting the water.

In that space occupied once by words, surprises bobbled forth among the waves. 

Awareness: Who knew that I could dink around for hours playing scrabble on my Kindle?
Cookery: Or add a smidgen of cooking because I wasn’t doing anything else at the time

Pals: Be brave to care enough and speak my heart when it is uncomfortable for us both
Syzygy: Say yes to invitations unexpected

JustDoIt: Commit to swimming again once a week
Say No. (end stop.)

I’ve stopped kicking against the current (mostly) allowing myself to fish into the current for the stuff of life bobbing by.

Perhaps in this bobbing about are clues to the next place to lay my head and invest my energy.
Perhaps it’s all a tidal wash crash-landing into the open sea.

I have no words so I plan to go with it for a bit longer.
Perhaps all will result in a mid-ocean Coast Guard rescue.

Maybe…just maybe I’ll end upon friendly shores – a wayfarer closer to home.

Let’s be brave folks.

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