It Seems My Muse Bit Her Tongue

So many stories swirl endlessly in my mind, as I drive or hike or run, and yet when I sit down to write--which is less often with our longer daylight--- I find myself with nothing coherent to say.

I only compose scraps of sentences that in no way capture the images my brain holds.

So summer goes.

Blue skies past 11:00 pm, tired body, dirt instead of ink rubbed into the creases of my skin.

The problem is, when weeks go by without writing, I begin to wonder if I will ever find my words again, instead of accepting this drought as a seasonal shift in priorities.

I didn't write a Mothers' Day post or one on Elias and Olive's last day of school.

I haven't written about moving into our unfinished off-the-grid home, where we may still be hauling water but our solar panels support both a fridge and a dryer.

I didn't write about waking up early before work one morning, heading outside to use the outhouse, and deciding to walk around the garden before going back inside to start the coffee, only to hear the blowhole of a whale surface 250 feet below, close enough to shore for the sound to rise as clearly as if a speaker broadcasted the mighty exhale.

By the time I threw on my sneakers and ran down the trail to the beach, the whale had moved out of sight, but I saw a neighbor sitting on her porch with her morning coffee and she said something like: A whale just rose right in front of me, right after I thought how perfect it would be for a whale to show up. It emerged right here next to the shore.

"I heard it from my house," I told her. "That's why I came running down."  

She and I shared a moment in the 5:00 am hour, when normally I'd be standing in my bathrobe waiting for the water to boil.

The painted sky and the possibility of seeing the whale beckoned me further down the beach, around the bend towards Spruce Creek, where I met another neighbor getting Miller's Landing's fishing boats ready, a seasonal worker from the East Coast who commented on my NY hat.

By the time I returned for breakfast, I'd squeezed in an impromptu run and two neighborly conversations; all because in an effort to conserve water, I stepped outside to use the bathroom, after which my perennials pulled me in to take a closer look.

And the sound of a whale's ancient breath rose up to meet my morning mind.

************

Well it seems I just wrote about that--which gives me faith these 26 letters, and all their wild arrangements, still lay within grasp.

I just need my muse's sharp teeth to loosen their grip, which happens more regularly if I actually allow myself to sit, and without too much direction, stack one word on top of another.

Comments

[Linda Medsker]

Those words came together pretty well, Christy! Thanks for starting out, and letting the muse catch up whenever she could. Sometimes writing is like that; as you used to tell us in writing group, "just keep your pen moving.". By the way, I have started a similar group at a senior center in Oregon. Fun!

[fleming]

I was curious if living in Alaska meant that the sound of a whale became less exciting but it seems that even locals like yourself get a rush! I can't wait to visit someday! xo.

[Christy]

I love that you have started a similar group Linda! I am running a similar style writing class at th prison only with homework. miss you

Yes, please come visit someday! And I hope I never grow jaded to the sound of whales:) Hugs to you!!!