Ever think about what it’s like to live with very little protection from the wind? To sit inside one’s house and hear this invisible force wail is one thing, but to face an imminent sunset while searching out shelter from a harrowing wind is quite another.
Truth is, with the exception of a handful of days, and by my own choice, I don’t know what it’s like to live surrounded by four strong walls and a roof over my head. I know not of sleeping on the ground, cold and damp. But in the comfort of my insomnia, permit nocturnal noises no more harrowing than intermittent silence and 60-cycle hum to vanquish ideas as though windswept.
I’ve spent weeks of literally blowing off prompts, ignoring the muse, waiting for and expecting nothing — why? Laziness and distractions and lame excuses? Then, while sipping morning coffee, I see an email from Jeff Goins with a Charles Bukowski quote: “Writing about writer’s block is better than not writing at all.”
Digging out of this imaginary hole my heart is in won’t be easy, and in some ways my head is asking why leave? It’s another means of protection from the wind that wants to blow off the shell of complacency and alibis. It’s time to crawl back to unshielded trails, climbing and standing on crests deciding on direction, the wind gnawing and grinding every contemplation.
It took me 15-minutes to write what’s on my heart, words tossed to the wind… countless more, like October leaves, to follow.