I have nothing to write – no journeys within or without, no journeys from the page or from thin air. I am jumbled in my mind – like a slinky that has gone all wrong – unable to slink, unable to have one smooth curve folding in on itself line after line.
Instead, it is the cloud of dust surrounding Pigpen – ethereal and light – but chaotic and swirling – one thought, plan, decision, worry cascading around another – clouding my vision – clouding the paths I’d like to take…
Ethereal and light – no, not really – the specs are carbon shards and tiny anvils - each with enough weight and slice to leave me bruised and bloodied – at least in my mind – likely my soul…
Just writing these words helps the dust settle, the kink in the slink pop mysteriously back into place. Breathing – deeply in, deeply out – creates a calm in the chaos – a pin, prick of smooth in the midst of all the waves.
What journeys would I like to take? With my feet, my mind, my eyes, my ears? What worlds await within if only I give them an opening – a stillness – in which to be born?
And so, maybe the first journey is the journey to quietness – a labyrinth walk, a shavasana, a moment of breath – or maybe the first journey is recognition a journey needs to be made at all.
- Writer's Workshop, 2019
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