friday mountains… one step at a time
The power of suggestion is fierce and the suggestion is writer’s block. Honestly, as a pastor-mom, the possibilities for pondering seem endless so it is rarely a matter of finding a topic but more often a struggle between choices of worthy topics. But a lively conversation about writers block earlier in the week stands between me and the keyboard. A small wave of panic danced at the edges of my mind, “what if?” it taunted.
But like most things in my life, I pondered it. I pondered this thing called writer’s block and I discovered a most interesting and obvious fact about writer’s block. A block is not a vacuum. A vacuum would be much harder to navigate, the unseen energy fields dangerous. But a block is something that can be scaled or walked around or, my personal favorite, taken apart.
On this Friday morning, with a deadline looming, I can choose to stand in awe of the mountain or I can tackle it. The choice is mine. Awe has its place, especially when it comes to the sacred. But for ponderers, awe is but a gateway for ever more questions.
Of what is this writer’s block composed? Most likely the assortment of daily human emotions that came upon wonderment, stopped too quickly, and melded into a tangled mess. Like a knot in a skein of yarn, the harder I pull the more set the knot. With a tangle of the ordinary, the prudent course is present patience. The jumble will not like dissolve of its own accord, at least not within the time allotted, making my intention important. But intention needs to be matched by a willingness to allow the feelings to have their own integrity. I cannot force them into patterns that do not belong to them. Coming to know each strand, I can see how it connects, helpfully, and not, to the one beside it. Working in concert, the knot unwinds. Except when it doesn’t. There are some tangles with which we live, some Gordian knots that stubbornly refuse to be resolved. These we must hold carefully. But even knowing which ones are immovable requires a substantial investment of emotional capital.
From a distance, writers block looms mammoth. Up close it is fairly small and largely navigable. Unfortunately, though, it isn’t very pretty. You never hear people talk about a writer’s façade wall or writers courtesy screen. Nope, it’s writer’s block. A block of cheese is yummy but rarely ascetically noteworthy (apologies to my Wisconsin friends). A block of rooms is functionally descriptive but never used in the hotel marketing ‘zines. The fact is that writer’s block is not pretty and rarely comes with so much as a decent coverlet. Of all the Friday morning companions one might choose, writer’s block is probably just about rock bottom on the list.
Yet as I sit with this writer’s block on an otherwise gentle Friday morning, I realize the size of this dread condition is, at least for today, quite small and despite the unattractive exterior, the jumble that belongs to me is quite intriguing. I can see within the tangle the procrastination and … well, the whole list of character defects that I am slowly beginning to recognize as my own. And while I don’t care to make public my accounting of these messy strands, my awareness of them is the only hope for ultimately untangling them. Walking around the block works until it doesn’t; thankfully when we are ready to tackle the block there are sages around us who can coach as we face each tangled piece.
That which is dread from a distance loses its power when held up close in the bright light of day.
