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Thursday, July 25, 2013

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.

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