I’ve been trying to write unsuccessfully all summer long, in an effort to see movement in my creative life, break the spell, the fear of sharing my heart, and end this dire dread-filled drought.
Finally, the other day without too much warning, I started to drip.
First, a few frail words drizzled out. Then some sentences took shape. Paragraphs appeared almost out of nowhere. Soon, a swirling storm cloud swirled overhead, the rain threatening the ground below.
Here it comes, I thought.
A flood of built-up emotions, loss, and resentment let loose.
But I craved it. I wanted to be soaked through until even my bones felt like they’d turned to mush.
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Drenched in the complexities of being human, fully alive. I refuse to run and stand with my face to the clouds, my eyes wide open as the water rushes down my cheeks mixing with my salty tears.
Although I always wish for the radiant sunshine to magically dry the soggy earth of my existence; I first need to learn to show up for the downpours and long for the devastating rains to fall. I know this is the only way I will eventually poke through the hard soil and burst into bloom.
This dry cracked dirt covering me is proof I’m running from my reality. Although I can’t avoid the parched soul of a desert season, there is a way through.
I call forth the rain without fear.
I follow the clouds as they gather.
I chase the storm with fascination, ready to let the wind and water rush over me and make me soft and pliable once again.
