Bits and
pieces of me scattered around the house. Looking for an unlined journal, I
located the paginated essay book I bought in 1970… a graduation from “diary” to
“journal work.” I fancied myself so very mature at 21. It begins just a couple
months before my marriage to Al… and ends with the entry of me writing an
unsent letter, informing him of my decision to file for divorce. My writing in
some of those last pages is small and tight and painful to see – almost a
backhand slant to it. One of the last entries speaks of not being able to “find
Linda” in all that was going on.
And I
rummaged through drawers of never-opened art supplies, which have been sitting
there waiting for the creative urge to strike me. I thought I would like to
take an unlined journal and a few pencils with me on this trip to the clergy
retreat. Perhaps I could both write and draw my impressions of the experience,
I thought. And what I found included a set of colored pencils by Mongol that I
purchased for art class in 1968… and a smaller set I bought a couple years ago.
Both seemed “too much of a production” to take with me. I am not sure what it
is I am seeking. I don’t want to arrive looking like I think I am an artist…
but who am I?
Fabric
swatches rolled up and stored in a cupboard that was built to be a wine rack. I
had great plans to make the guest room closet into a sewing nook, and I have
fabrics I bought with the intention of turning them into clothing. Plans on
hold, “a dream deferred.”
There is
that in me crying out to create – and each week I create a message for my
community and offer it up on Sunday morning. That is most assuredly creating.
And somehow I do not recognize it as such. And I write my “daily pages” at
least three days a week most weeks – and some of them turn into blogs and
Sunday messages, and the notebooks are stored in boxes in the hall closet. And
the freezer is full of food waiting to be turned into meals, but it is too hot
to spend time in the kitchen.
Is this that
Divine Discontent of which 'they' speak? A house filled primarily with potential or
spent energy… not much kinetic happening here, it seems. I am willing to move
forward, and I don’t seem to know how. “Do what’s in front of you” – ‘they’ say
that is the thing. So the computer is in front of me and here are the thoughts.
And I yearn to paint, to cook, to write, to play, to release that within that
wants to be expressed… and today does not seem to be the day. Not all essays
have a resolution, it seems.
