It’s amazing how time can create physical space that moves the familiar to the foreign; small steps become broad leaps; innocent cracks, deep chasms. Things that once extended our very selves can move so far away that we question our ability to re-connect.
Writing has always been a bodily function for me, a routine part of daily life.
Thoughts stir and swell and blend into words and phrases that land on paper; a process as regular and predictable as the ebb and flow of the tide; rolling in, easing out. Breathing in, breathing out. Thinking in, writing out.
It has been this way for as long as I can remember, but six months ago, I watched my muse wash out with the tide and drift far away. I called to her, searched for her but I could not hear her; could not see her.
A part of me was lost.
Life began erecting structures on the horizon that was once reserved for writing: continuing education classes and deadlines; teenagers and college searches; financial struggles and endless running.
The rhythm of the tide changed; demands in, solutions out.
I surrendered to the new normal, void of thought and voice; functional but empty.
Recently, I caught a glimpse of my muse in the distance. I tried frantically to get her attention. I came to the horizon of my keyboard, but she was too far out; the water cold and deep and too far to swim. I have been longing for her, missing her, but ever so fearful of the waters that churned between us.
Finally, this morning, the waves relaxed and she washed up on shore and I find myself standing with my feet wet to greet her as we tentatively reacquaint.