Let me be enough
On writing and instinct
About writing, they say diving in is the hardest part. I’m sure that’s someone’s reality, but it’s not mine. I can almost always convince myself to take that first immersive plunge. Once I’m in, it’s easy enough to swirl around in my own wave action, suck ideas into my mouth and let them flow out again, feel the slip of the bottom at my feet. I leave feeling refreshed, virtuous even, for having gone in.
Occasionally, though, even after I’ve made the leap, I can’t see my way past the cold, soggy, breathing challenge. Why would anyone without a wetsuit or a blowhole subject themselves to such an ordeal?
For me, the struggle of writing is not in the starting, it’s in the vision. I must have an idea of where I’m headed even if I don’t quite know how I’ll get there. I’m not undone by the need to put my butt in the chair. I get that part. I’m nothing if not committed. I’ll walk away with a seat-shaped ass if I have to. I’m in it for the long haul.
But when, on occasion, I can’t raise the spirit to enjoy the water, I’ve come to think of that as better judgement, not absence of will. I hear it whispering, “Not just now.”
Maybe there are writers out there who would tell me that’s lack of discipline or deadline fatigue masquerading as insight. But it feels intuitive, and I’m trying to give myself permission to allow that.
Here now, in the midst of the shift from winter’s intimacy to the untamed fecundity of spring, I am dazed. My whole world, and everything in it, is lusty and productive, plants concupiscent, animals coupling. Emergence! Revival! Hosanna!
And, like lovers after climax, I am overcome with the need to lie still, close my eyes, and let the deliciousness of the moment be enough. Let me be enough.
Some days, I stand at the water’s edge to take in my reflection and see that it is fractured by movement. In the distance, I see places where dappled sunlight is an orchestra, each sparkling shape a musician, and in the air, a quiet symphony. It is there I am bound to go.
~Elizabeth
This is so, so lovely. And it gives me another lens through which to view my own recent quiet--one that rings more true than others that have been suggested. Thank you.
You've done it again. My eyes are teared. I think over and over "let me be enough." Why does that idea have such remarkable power? Thanks also for the link to LaMott, reminding me to take writing (and life) "bird by bird." (It is easy to imagine someday I am reading LaMott and there, in her text, is a link to your writing, Elizabeth.)