The Seventh Wave
I have to confess. I don't write my blogs.
They write themselves.
I can't post every day. I mean, I could post everyday, but it wouldn't be good. It wouldn't be my voice. It would be the strained voice of a post that I forced out. It would be a lump of coal, worthless and ugly and rough around the edges.
Randomly, often without warning, something motivates and inspires me. 99% of the time, this happens on long car rides. I mentally dictate post after post after post. And when I go to type them, they vanish into thin air. Like someone jostled my Etch a Sketch between the car and the computer. Wiped clean.
When I am in the groove, catching each wave of brilliance like a giddy surfer, life is good. And when I am committed, I polish my board, slide into my mental wetsuit and head out. Translation? I grab a journal and go to school. I drop in on a class by my muse, friend, lover of curse words, Hannah. I do the work. I listen to my teacher. And I become the seventh wave.
Most days, this doesn't happen. I oversleep. I ignore my soul, shushing it because I have to be somewhere else, to be someone else. I walk past the wetsuit, toss the board aside and pull on my mom jeans. Until the next time. Conditions look clean for tomorrow.
