Was making eye contact in yoga class. Me, in down dog, butt right up in the air. Geez, can’t you find another time?
Or worst, at the grocery store, while I was trying to reach for the humongous bottle of soy sauce I pour in my one-pan daily stir fry. Again, really?
Then I’d become very pissed when I’d get chased by on my way home, having to walk faster despite the weight of my lululemon totes (best reusable bags ever for people who get as crazy about sales at the grocery store as I do – as in, what? Broccoli for $1?! Gotta take four. No, five. Then completely forgetting that this whole cart has to fit into three bags I have to carry for approximately 2 miles).
I mean, what are you? A stalker?!
I thought this was creepy. Uncomfortable. Shouldn’t be that way.
Now I believe I’ve caught the Stockholm syndrome.
As it often happens in a toxic relationship, I got attached. Now that I find myself alone, I miss the feeling, the drama.
Gone. The demon of creativity has left me.
My inspiration is nowhere to be found. The urge to write has vanished, faster than $2 Milka bars on sale at PA supermarket.
Now that my mind is clearer, and my soul slowly healing, I have trouble holding on to issues, obstacles and tribulations that were the main source of creativity.
See, my writing process used to be quite simple. I would go through the week as a warrior, forcing my way, pushing, asking for more, always, protecting this picture perfect persona I had created in my mind to protect me from any hurdle. In spite of all my efforts to act as if, there would always be a split. You know, that crack Lenny talks about.
And there you had it. The entry door for Spirit to come and visit.
It would be obvious by then it was the thing I had to write about this week. The title would come up, and from now on it was pretty much done. Just sit back in my La-Z-Boy recliner (don’t laugh, it’s my grandma’s inheritance – from one grandma to another), get my baby Mac out and we were on a roll, rocking our way through publishing one more post.
These days, no matter how much I swing back and forth, nothing comes up. All that delicious and juicy process of writing about my own personal drama, I can’t rely on anymore. For the first time, I’m experiencing writer’s block.
Although it can’t be described as a block. Actually, it’s quite the opposite. Everything is floating. I’m as soft and smooshy as the interior of those Milk Chocolate Marshmallow Ghosts I’ll get at 50% off at Laura Secord (starting to see a thread here – guess it’s what happens when you write with low blood sugar).
Despite the gray, the wind, the cold rainy days and the longer nights of November, I’m doing f*cking great. I’m high on Kundalini. My head is still full of Cali’s sunshine. I’m still surfing on those Pacific waves, with no intend of coming back.
I’m having a blast, the best time of my life, for no other reason than waking up in the morning and going to bed at night.
Every second of my day, I enjoy. I’ve found how to laugh again, I’m eating chocolate every meal and I’m throwing the best dance parties: you know the ones in your undies, where you truly believe for a second you’ve finally perfected all the moves to that Drake beat and are looking damn hot performing them.
I feel on top of the world. Breathing is my new favorite drug.
That, my friends, does nothing for my writing.
What am I gonna do? Become a younger version of Michael A. Singer (without the mustache please) and preach how to liberate your soul? Or call Gabby to tell her I now believe it when she says the Universe has your back?
Funny enough, it’s exactly when I stop asking myself the big questions that I get all the answers. When I let go, trust and just live life on my own terms.
In the physicality of life, I found the meaning I was looking for.
It’s very simple. Almost too simple, so we complicate things, with the mind trying to control the experience, while the soul is only seeking a concrete experience through the senses, enjoying the dignity of being a human.
The more I get that, the more free I become, the less I feel the need to write.
Be aware. This might be the last post.
I’m fine with it. I’ll take a writer’s block any day rather than the myriad of obstacles my mind used to pop on my way on a regular basis. I’d rather be a free human than a troubled artist.