Writer's Block And Then Some....

One of the worst things that can ever happen to a writer is being trapped in the box called the writer's block.

As each day passes the guilt of not writing grows cavernous roots until it engulfs the writer's entire being.

The soul fights for freedom so that it can vomit words on paper but the roots keep getting deeper and deeper.

A week ago over a pitcher of Sangria in a fancy Spanish restaurant I burst out crying and told my mother, “My writing is gone and for that one thing, I can’t forgive myself.”

It’s been months that I wrote something worth publishing on this blog. Most of the time I don’t feel like writing and when I do, I write gibberish as a sort of punishment to myself.

My mother, the eternal cheerleader, smiled and told me, “Like everything else, this will also pass.”

When life shakes the ground under your feet, after the surroundings have crumbled into tiny bits and the world has stopped spinning, you slowly start to build again.

Brick by brick you reshape the walls, crooked and not perfect, to make a new design. You restructure the foundation and sow new seeds.

You stand in the middle of it all and marvel at the beauty of life to survive and come alive again in the middle of destruction like the tiny shoots of grass that sprout underneath a frozen ground hoping that the sun will shine and melt away the sleet.

Eventually spring comes, the seeds grow and new flowers bloom.

It was only whilst sipping sangria with tears rolling down my cheeks and watching the sun go down that I realized that my mom, as usual, was right.

Everything eventually passes. Time moves along and memories become flickers of dust that merge into space, omnipresent, but never visited, touched or felt again.

It is the hardest task to forgive yourself– to let go of things that you wish you had done differently, break the layers of darkness, let the sun inside shine through and emerge as a more loving and giving human being.

My garden, with seeds desperate to grow, hadn’t bloomed yet.

As the final drop of sangria finished and the North Star flickered brightly I decided it was time to take the key out of my pocket, open the box and fly.