Get up on the horse and ride

Sitting cross-legged on the (mostly) vacuumed carpet, I find myself sorely disappointed in myself. I am far too undermotivated. I am far too good a debater than is good for me, and far too often talk myself out of nearly anything I'd like to do. Go for a walk? Ah, but it's gray and rainy and humid and... blah blah blah. What I need is a voice which overrides the negativity inside of me and pushes the positives to the forefront. I have typically waited for this voice to be external; a friend cheering me on, a lover kindly supporting me, a stranger commenting on their appreciation of something I have created or accomplished.

In a work environment it is easy for me to do this. It is easy to say "Ah, but this will be recognized in the end! This will have a positive outcome!". In the workplace I have the near-instant gratification of a superior telling me how good of a job I am doing. In the workplace there is someone who cares, who depends on me, and who gives me the affirmation I need to keep doing the same thing the next day. At home, in the car, in the city... I simply do not have that. And thus in lies the problem.

I must be self-motivated and self-affirming. God, doesn't that sound horribly boring? Depend on myself for something which feels better, tastes better, looks better coming from others? Deny myself the gluttonous pleasure of basking in praise coming from those around me? It's not as much as choice as I would like it to be. The bottom line is that, to my chagrin, I must be self-sufficient.

In a small way, I could make myself feel better in saying that as everyone is a part of the same universe, in a way my affirming myself others then affirm me... though, that is a far-fetched and clumsy grasp for a form of compensation I know I should not need.

"But they will all see how horribly I will fail! Those closest to me will note every vulnerability and weakness I have! What if the world does not approve- or worse- what if they don't even notice me?"

Those pesky insecurities...

Truth be told, I am all that keeps me from being and doing what I want to. I am the barrier between wanting and having. And it's about time I put all of these mental acrobatics to good use.

Soon To Dream

Her mind wanders through the ebb and flow; soon to sleep, soon to dream, yet only catching a taste of this now and again. First it comes in darkness... A blink prolonged just so far as to trick the senses. Then, a color, a scent, a picture. Brief snapshots of the subconscious, flitting about furiously as migratory butterflies arriving home from a long journey, their wings flapping gracefully in a symphony of whispers. It is this soft swish, so similar to fresh snow descending onto the browner leaves on the forest floor in those first days of winter, which captivated her and pulls her in. It is a familiar tune, whimsical yet serene. Unaware of her drooped eyelids, of her slowed pulse, of her deep breathing, she glides into one of the picture books before her. They vary in genre from the extreme and post-apocolyptic to the mundane or lightly comedic . Sometimes in black and white, full of the thick stench of smoke, other times vivid and tantilizing with bright colors, textures, tastes, and characters to explore. Whatever the adventure, she leaps in headfirst, awaiting what the night holds in store.

Aphasia

Writer's Block.

Writer's block is an often mistaken animal; blamed for many passed deadlines, empty pages, and forlorn glances at the blinking line of the cursor. However, writer's block is not always simply the absence of idea. Sometimes writer's block is more complicated than that.

It is my own resilience towards being proactive which ends as my bane. In denying myself the time I should spend in the works of others, pouring over pages of text, absorbing metaphor and simile, soaking in the wonderful art of wordsmithing, I close off the vital source for which I draw my ability to cohesively express myself. In my inactivity my mental muscles atrophy and my vocabulary shrinks, replacing intelligent discourse with primal one-line responses, snarky scripts, and those dreaded body language motions; shrugging and nodding.

And there I am left, with ideas begging to be transfered to language, yet with no means by which to do so. I struggle in the dark fog, groping aimlessly for something, anything, which could possibly express the glimpses of brilliance protruding from my cerebral self. I find myself smothered by the thick stench of my own laziness, choking on the dirt in this grave of self-deprivation.

This infamous writer's block; this is not some scape goat awaiting my abuse. This is simply the object of my own misguidance. The dirty little skeleton now walking in shambles down the hallway, cursing me and threatening to eat my little children, my ideas and inspirations. Should the pen truly be mightier than the sword, then perhaps I wouldn't need that attack bonus, eh? Really, all of the things we consider sharp- our wit, our minds, our pens- these are what we need to exercise daily.

These are what fend off the monsters in the closet.

Series of Scents, Part I

This time of year I begin to look forward to those days of late winter/early spring. The days which are short and cool, yet sunny with a brightness found only from the sun's reflection on the packed snow. Those beautiful days in which if one were to wander about, you could see the snow slowly melting away, causing little sandy rivers on the roadsides. Icicles drip large, crystal orbs of frigid water, bursting upon impact with the ground or- better yet- carving little round holes deep into the inches of snow beneath. There is a sense of rebirth in the air; a sense of awakening and timelessness. Something about those days seems busy, yet in an organic and natural sort of way. The way a hummingbird is always flitting about, heart pumping away at hundreds of beats per minute, yet something about the small creature appears leisurely. That little green bird with the red patch on his throat; he has a secret, and if you stare closely, you can nearly make out a little gleam in his tiny black eyes. He knows that all he has to do is simple BE. That is his job, and one he takes on gladly.

The best part of these days is not the veil of water droplets fountaining off of rooftops. It is not the muddy pawprints left by excited young dogs in the dissipating snow. It is not the warm, radiating sunlight which bursts forth between the window blinds illuminating the ceiling with ribbons of light. The best part of these days is the unmistakable scent of the season.

The scent lingering in the air in that period between winter and spring begins with a certain crispness, like that found in a fresh, tart green apple. It is a cool scent, a scent reminiscent of that lighter blue found in the sky on days where the clouds are high and wispy. A scent that flirts with the light sprout green of those first shoots of grass. You breathe in and immediately it rushes up through your nostrils, seemingly straight into your brain. Cool, clear, as the water you see cascading from cracks in the tall cliff sides in the countryside. Once the sensation has coursed into your head and begins to move through your body, another partner comes into play. It grabs you, pulls you back front and center, and fills you up much like a gardener fills a planter with fresh soil.

This second half of the scent is earthy, herbal, and mossy. Though you may not see the ground beneath the snow, it makes itself known in all of its full-bodied and filling glory. Here I would use the word "dirty", though not in the typical sense. There is nothing unclean about this. It is simple that pertaining to dirt. It is gritty, grainy, heavy, rough. It is the consistency of a farmer's hands after working a hard day. Calloused and rough, but warm and vital. It is comforting, the way a mother's breast is a comfort to a young child. This scent- this is that of mother nature herself.

There is something about the combination of these two; of the cool, refreshing, ice-melting clear scent and the warm, earthy, basic soil of the earth, which is irresistible. Something about this says "you, child, wake". And so I do. My eyes shut for but a moment before opening with new clarity as I allow the scent of spring to course through me. Into my nose, up into my head, flowing through my arms and down my legs with a slight chill.

As I do this, memories flood back. Memories of nature- of forests having stood for centuries, now adorned with moss and lichens. Memories of self- of love begun, explored, and lost. And even, for brief moments, snippits of what could be- of new love, of new life, of new experiences. In this moment I was, I am, and I continue to be. And in this moment, I fulfill my purpose.