A Trickle and a Song

Where are the words?

This I ask myself. It’s not that I have no words—many words have been literally lifting off of me in verse and rhyme—but the formal forming of them in my usuals ways has disappeared of late. I tried the other day. I re-read the first draft of a blog post. I was going to post it last month. But then I read it again, and well, the words fell flat. So much so that I lost interest in reading my own words about halfway through. Not a great sign.

I know the tricks of the trade—what I must do to pull out my worthy words again. Most of it involves writing more (duh). Building in habits and rhythms to keep the words rolling. This will involve time that I do not have right now, but that’s not even the real reason I’m not going to do it. It’s not a lack of angst or contemplation, either. (I’ve always had these in abundance). 

I just don’t want to. And what’s more—I’m fine with it.

I’m finding that my hands and my heart are full to the brim with what’s directly in front of me. The budding garden, household running, day-job doing, and daily children driving feels like plenty for the moment.  

Admittedly, the “Word Well” is a little drier than usual. A shifting of stage has occurred yet again. When the babies were in bed by 7pm, I had an evening of quiet creation. When the kiddos were in bed by 8 pm, I’d do a quick kitchen clean then settle at the computer for an hour. 

Now, I hunch over my computer to the sounds of ice skates and lacrosse drills, and run my own kind of drills when we fly through the front door at the end of the day in hopes to get the kids in bed before 9 pm. My current line of vision involves pickle-ball with McDonalds fries at my feet. I used my own lysol wipes to clean off the only-ever dirty tables at the arena just so I could sit to write about not writing. It’s no wonder I don’t have much to say under such conditions.

Yet, again I say to myself, it’s not like I’m not writing. There’s a trickle—and it’s a life-giving flow.

But the formal words—the encouraging, poetic, reflective, teaching, and world-building words—are all hiding. I shall find them again in time.

Until then…below is the shape of my new art. Undecided how many of these I’m willing to admit to. You’ll get just this one today, and only shared here, in this personal and safe corner of the internet where trolls daren’t go (no audience, therefore hardly worth their time). Unedited, cause this process has taken too long already.

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/46eff3_06cb1cc184b840c196f5440b1f8876cb/1080p/mp4/file.mp4

I've been fighting an internal war with myself, on how or when, and even why, I would share this new creative flow. I'm constantly fighting the fear that my creativity will dry up as soon as my works-in-progress come to light, as if speaking it aloud takes away its lustre. And truthfully, that's happened a bit with my novel (although I would credit other distractions for my lack of progress there; see above).

My words have been flowing into new streams; yet not wholly unfamiliar. I grapple with this shift in direction, whether I'm veering off course somehow. Then I remember that writing is an art, a creative product, and sometimes (all the time?) the artist mustn't fight the current.

I am a songwriter.

I struggle to own this. Not because I don’t enjoy it, but because I consider myself unqualified.

You see, I'm a Piano RCM Level One drop-out. My eight-year-old has officially eclipsed my skill on the keys. Any knowledge I've cobbled together has been through Youtube and following my ear, which I owe to genetics. I can pick out harmonies well, which I don't take for granted anymore, and my out-of-practice vocal chords need a tune-up. But it gets worse (or better?) because the instrument I've chosen to play takes almost no skill. Hence, why I chose it. I needed an instrument that would let me sing without the tedious hours of practice behind me. Yes, my strums are rudimentary, but they get the job done. Thanks, autoharp.

All this to say...I was worried that I was in the wrong lane.

And there's the rub. The credentialism we created has turned into the very system that disqualifies us. There was no eight note music scale in Eden’s garden, but I have no doubt that there was song.

In contemplation, prayer, grappling, and a little validation, I no longer feel like a child playing dress up in mom’s high-heels. Art takes many forms, as can artists. This artist can only play one instrument in the key of C. But art I shall create, nonetheless. It's in me. Its pulled from me. Its breathing. And I’m grateful for it. I'm also not about to cut a record. I see this for what it is—a Creative growing.

What’s in you? What’s waiting for you to acknowledge and summon, for the beating of your heart? Enjoyment of your soul? The glory of your creator?

You are qualified to create.