I’m backed into a grove of trees next to the softball field fence. I usually just hang out here while Grace practices for two hours. I read and write, doze a little, cheer a little, maybe listen to a Tiger’s game. It’s hot today, but I’ve rolled the windows down and a cool breeze blows through the car while stray hairs tickle my cheeks. I smack at a mosquito that’s chosen to snack on my arm.
My son played T-ball on this field and the other just down the way. I remember when he accidentally caught a pop foul while playing catcher. It seems so long ago. I think that was the same day our friends from Colorado were visiting. I remember that one game and the chubby little guy who’d run the bases with his face to the crowd and the biggest grin on his face.
Ahead of me on the right side of the drive is the 4-H building. We spent a lot of time there when the kids raised and showed rabbits.
In just a few weeks this whole area will morph into a midway filled with whirlings and twirlings, loud music, fat cords underfoot, carneys hawking games, and the thunder of superstock tractors and demolition cars.
The air will explode with the aromas of elephant ears and popcorn and cotton candy and corn dogs and Italian sausage.
We’ll wrap our whiffers around the scents of hogs and sheep and horses and cows and chickens–odors that both appeal and repel.
Dust will fly and grit will lodge between my toes and behind my contacts.
We camped back by the animals one year. That was the time my son, after being told not to run, bonked head-first right into the hitch of a 5th wheel. Abby said the sound was like a gunshot, and blood was everywhere. That wasn’t the first time he got stitches.
That might have been the year we won two chickens at the 4-H auction–Henry and Henrietta. They turned into Henry I and Henry II, and we turned them over to an Amish lady, who turned them back to us in a styrofoam cooler. I cooked them. But we couldn’t eat them.
Time’s gone by so fast, and I’ve forgotten so much. I wish I’d been better at regular journaling.
My husband’s cousin sent a check the other day for their share of the flowers we planted at the cemetery. “We’ve been busy taking care of Mom’s things,” she wrote. “She died in January.”
And I panicked. Aunt Viola (my mother-in-law’s sister) just died? And we didn’t know? Can’t be. I shut my eyes tight and tried to remember.
I talked to my husband about it. “Oh,” he said. “That must be Joe’s mother. I’ve only met her once, I think, at Aunt Viola’s funeral.”
“Did we go to Aunt Viola’s funeral?” I asked.
“Yes. And we had the funeral dinner at our church.”
I. Can’t. Remember.
Not. One. Detail.
But I plant flowers every year in front of the headstone where her name is engraved. It scares me a little.
Friends reassure me that if I’m worried about my memory, I don’t need to worry about my memory. It’s if I’m not worried that I need to worry. And I read somewhere that we need to forget some things in order to create more memories.
That bothers me a bit today, too. The creating thing. I pick up my artist’s sketchbook, the one I’m using as a notebook for this creativity class, and I write:
I don’t understand it. I just finished a memoir workshop and I’ve started this one–learning to think like Leonardo Da Vinci. But I’m feeling numb. Saturated, yet unsqueezable. Words have soaked deep and don’t seem to want to bubble to the surface. I’m tired. I’m procrastinating. I’m overwhelmed. With everything. I feel locked up and blocked down.
All this creativity training, and I’ve got a little writer’s block?
But I know it takes time for it all to simmer and settle. And I know what I’m doing is firing and sharpening neurons.
So today I’ll move more physical clutter from the house, just a few steps on my march toward mini-minimalism.
I’ll make a batch of gazpacho and prepare some fruits and veggies for quick snacks.
I’ll whip up a green smoothie, sit in the sun (if it ever comes out), read a book with no agenda but to enjoy it.
I’ll read some Scripture while I sip on some Red Velvet Chocolate tea with a little almond milk. Maybe I’ll sketch a picture.
I’ll take care of myself.
I’ll sit down and look up.
I’ll be still and know.
And I’ll remember my mom’s words, “This, too, shall pass.”
When did you last experience writer’s block?
How did you shake it?
Still–somewhere,
Sandy
In community today with Jennifer and Emily
Sandy,
I’m not a creative writer but at one time I wrote almost every day. Didn’t always share it, but it was one of my great loves.
We’ve had an incredible amount of stress in our family over the past five years. Some of it you know about. Some you don’t.
I neglected “self-care” most of the time. It caught up to me. Writer’s block, memory fog, crushing fatigue.
And I’ve forgotten some very significant events. Most of them while in an intense emotional state (either happy or sad), so I relate to you on many levels here.
I don’t have a sutuon but I do know that God has a plan, purpose, and time for everything. In His time the block will crumble. With rest He’ll renew your strength. And HE will bring back to remembrance all that is important in the plan He had for you.
Rest & play, my friend. It’ll do you good. And this too will pass. I know it!!
Why do we so often think that simply stopping to take care of ourselves is selfish? Or that seeking stillness is a waste of time? How can we do effective battle without preparation? The stress overload (and one I often put on myself) and the noise of the world can crush us if we let it.
And you know what? Right now I’m thinking of dry fields, desperate for water. And when the rain comes–especially if there’s a downpour–the ground can’t soak it in right away, can’t be plowed right away, can’t grow right away. It just needs to sit for awhile.
I think I might be in both places right now. Love you oh so big, my friend. You’re often on my heart.
Darn auto correct. Forgive my typos. You know what I mean. God has a plan & nothing will hinder it ultimately!
The typo police have been banished from this place. 😉
Melinda has said it all so well… and the term ‘memory fog’ is exactly right. It will clear, but there’s no set time schedule and fretting about that only adds more stress when you need less.
Many years ago my first major piece of writing was a family memoir of scattered memories that are not intended for publication. It’s filled with details that will be of interest only to family members… some details that I read now and can’t recall writing! It’s distressing but at the same time not worrying, because I know my life is in God’s hands. He has the important things (and the insignificant ones, too) under control. Why do I think I need to have total recall of everything? There are years of living and memory-making still to come so if my brain needs to clear a bit out to make room for all that, so be it.
I don’t think I’ve ever experienced true writer’s block, but I’ve certainly experienced times of drought. I wrote anyway. I have journals filled with thoughts expressed in bad writing, but still expressed. Some days the entries were little more than five minutes worth of pedantic, mostly meaningless words, but in retrospect I believe the very act of putting the words on paper were helping to prime the pump of creativity, or at least keep me cranking the handle.
You always have such wise words, Carol.
That one stunning moment with that card–with the momentary shock that they hadn’t told us. But of course, they didn’t. Because we already knew…
And you’re right. We don’t have to have total recall of everything. If we’re living a full, rich life, how can we?
I’m glad you’ve left a legacy of memoir for your family. Even though you don’t now remember the details, at least you have a knitted record of the strands of your life. It reminds me that I need to pull down a legacy-keeper my daughter gave me several years ago. We gave memory books to my husband’s parents–but neither filled them out. My mother-in-law’s was still in the brown mailing envelope in the basket next to her chair.
I don’t think what I’m experiencing right now is a true block, though. Thank goodness. 🙂
I am new around here and already love the peacefulness of your writing. I am writing my way out of cancer and church pain and old abuse, trying to reprocess old pain so I can actually feel it and be done feeling it. Writer’s block comes often – but I feel it is more of a soul blockage. Once I get things worked out inside myself, it flows again, and the memories turn bright again. It’s a rationing of sadness, and I thank my Creator for treating me gently.
It’s like picking off the the scabs and letting the blood flow again, isn’t it? And yet there’s healing in the blood. And there’s healing in giving words to the hurt. I’m so glad you’re here, friend.
The memory is so interesting because reading your words about the fair “jogged” some of my memories of the fair. (I thought of the pain my sister’s bony hip bone inflicted on me when we rode the scrambler! And other things) Of course, your memory rose up as you sat at the ball field. I am mostly a blocked writer. I think I hold back even though I try not to. So that being said, I am no help on the writer’s block. I do feel for you concerning the matter, but I am never disappointed when I stop by here.
You know, reading what others write is another way to jog our memories and loosen our own words. So now I think you should write about your fair experiences. 🙂
Sending love. I’m never disappointed when you stop by here.
I laugh only because I’ve been there, and wrote my way out around writer’s block by switching from what I had to write (an outline for a book it has been suggested I write – I was struggling) to a blog post that came in at almost 1500 words – something I enjoy. I returned to the stalled outline today, and will add more to it tomorrow – the ice jam is breaking. May yours as well 🙂
Writing around… It’s another good way to ram the jam. Good advice, and a good reason to have more than one project going. Thanks, Rick. Hope you break through soon!
I’m with you on forgetfulness — those little things they did were always the best. And now, I strain to remember
I’m glad we have photos (somewhere) to remind us. But I don’t want to forget those little details. I suppose Carol is right, though. Maybe we’re not meant to capture everything. I wish I’d written down more at the time, though.
Right there with you, friend. And yes, self-care becomes very important in times of drought, as another commenter phrased it. I’m smack dab in the middle of one and leaving for 4 weeks vacation very soon. (not travel this time, but truly vacation) Perhaps that will help unstick things?? Love you.
I’ve never had a full month’s vacation! When I worked in an operating room about a hundred years back, my boss encouraged us to take our full two-week vacation at once. Not just a day here or a long weekend there. It was her belief that it took at least a week to wind down and then the second week became real vacation. I think ten days is the longest I’ve ever vacated–though some might argue with that. 😉
Maybe your vacation will jar some more words loose. You’ve had a lot on your plate. Love you more.
This. I needed this today. Thank you for the encouragement to not give in. To not push through, but rest through.
I’m glad it resonated with you, Brenna. And I love how you put it: don’t push through, but rest through. One of the things I did here was to just start writing what I saw from where I was. I don’t always know where something’s going when I do that, but often I surprise myself. And I’m often surprised when the words touch others.
Sandy, I’m still reading LL Barkat’s God in the Yard–almost done–and the chapter I’ve been ruminating on is about self-care, among other things. The stopping to take time for a cup of tea and a good book. And there are reminders to me daily about the looking up and looking around whether it’s a walk or a sit on the deck.
I’m with you–things take time to percolate….and the forgetting part? I’m with you–if there’s one marble that goes in, another one has to come out. (Think gumballs, if necessary.) The older I get the easier it is to lose my marbles.
oh sandra, i LOVE your honesty here. i think we can all relate, and we just so often fail to admit how tired we are. how greatly we need to rest and take a vacation and let the Holy Spirit remind us of our purpose. take all of the time you need friend. we’ll be here waiting. we love you and believe in you. (one of the greatest things i love about your writing is the attention you give to detail… it makes me feel like i’m right there. well done.)