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Log Jam

It's been quite a week!  The chickens have come home to roost, and unlike my creativity, are already bearing fruit, er...eggs!  We started with the seven rescue hens who moved Monday night from the generous foster home provided by our neighbors into the coop that has consumed our lives since late March. Tuesday evening, Linda purchased two more hens, at least 3 weeks older than the seven, and we suspect one of those two is responsible for the TWO medium eggs we've gathered this week.  They'll be Sunday's breakfast.  These hens weren't free range, or raised organically until now, so we know we're not talking primo eggs, but it's a start.  I've posted more pictures here.  Unfortunately, I'm not feeling nearly so productive. 
Yesterday I got confirmation that an "essay" I wrote is going to be published.  I've been published in this magazine before, but probably not for at least 9 years.  It's exciting and I was profoundly honored to have the editor tell me how my piece affected her; it was high praise, and such validation for my lofty literary goals.  A dear faraway friend congratulated me, read the proofed piece, and offered her assessment that I "practice what I preach."  I should be brimming with excitement, motivation, determination.  Words should be flowing from me like water tumbles down Kaaterskill Falls.  Instead, every word it's taken me HOURS to write today has been dragged kicking and screaming through a crevice in the logjam blocking mind and soul.  The words and thoughts and feelings are 'there'; I can feel them jammed up, can feel my self bulging and swelling from their weighty pressure as they yearn to pour out.  But....nothing.  It's 2:00 on a Friday afternoon, the marvelous gift of a Friday off already more vanished than not, with virtually nothing to show for itself. 
Ah...except laundry.  Laundry has become my saving grace, the thing that seems my only measure of productivity...it has a beginning, middle, end.  I start with piles sorted in whatever way the mood strikes, and feel the deep satisfaction as each pile vanishes from the kitchen floor, rematerializing clean, soft and neatly hung, or folded and nestled, still warm from the dryer, into the cradle of a purple laundry basket. I seem able to control this small chore, able to see it through to completion, while words and thoughts never make it out of the rinse cycle.  How is it possible that faced with a writer's small success and validation, I'm even less able to loosen that logjam?  And appallingly, painfully mixing metaphors as well?!

Moving Forward

Do you ever feel like a derailed train?  Not just a train with one wheel dangling off its steel cradle, but one that has skidded right off the tracks into a quagmire of gooey, sticky, soul-sucking mud?  That's me...the little engine that couldn't (or wouldn't).  Take today for instance: in an effort to reclaim my far-too-long self-silenced writer, I promised myself that I would dedicate each Friday morning through the Summer (my workplace is closed Fridays from today through early August) to a "writing retreat", three hours dedicated to writing, be it poetry, writing exercises, giving shape to the novel begging to be written, or the blogs...anything short of grocery lists.  No internet, no calls, no distractions, no chores...just me, pen and paper (literally or figuratively). So how did that go?  It became a hair less than two hours, which I interrupted with research about and cooking of marrow bones for the dogs, and sending emails to Linda about that. 
And it's been a year this month since I declared that I would lose 75 lbs.  My progress?  At first, I was the soul of commitment!  Lost 38 lbs.  Then I gained 10 back, and sitting in the freezer for the first time in 374 days is Ben and Jerry's Karamel Sutra. 
My seedlings have dried up; the only things to have made it into the garden thus far are some beans, beets and basil. And I'm not even going to talk about my grand plan for getting way ahead on tasks at work, only to be doing a little bit of scrambling after all.
Do you see what I mean?  What does all this say about me?  Pop astrologers (versus the real deal) say Geminis are flighty; am I the embodiment of that?  Am I hopelessly lazy?  Is it self-sabotage, and if so, why?  Fear of success and the further expectations that success would birth?  What I do know is that every wheel that sinks deeper into the muck leads to some pretty intense self-judgment and depression, kind of a "what's the point?" mindset.  I have plenty of inspiration all around me.  Kim's blog is a testament to keeping at it, and not letting a slip become a downhill plunge from whence there's no return.  Time spent with Cait reminds me of how profoundly important it is to celebrate and honor the creative spirit.  Dawn's blog inevitably reawakens the desire to weave my life into a tapestry of sacred creativity.  With so much inspiration, and the non-judgmental support of a loving partner, all that's lacking is my own determination to to power up the engine and get back on track. 
So today I've lit my Brighid flame, not for my flamekeeping vigil, but to invoke the creative spark, to coax that flame into a roaring Fire of Goddess-directed passion and drive.  I'll rev myself up out of the mud, recommit to writing, weight-loss (which is all about having the health for the rest of it!), and the goal of living a more local, sustainable Earth-centered life.

Chugga-chugga-chug...