The muted muse

Green and blue hexagons waiting to be sewn into blocks.

Several still days of my writing life have accrued. The depletion of my emotional bandwidth is mostly to blame, what with aftershocks, bomb cyclones, and impending loss colliding. The result is I feel barely capable of cognitive thought, and very grateful for all the fabric I cut recently. Hand sewing takes little out of me mentally, although my right shoulder is beginning to protest from the uptick in slow stitching.

Past Me has no good advice; she's dwelling in memories that occurred before last spring when cancer was diagnosed. Future Me is also staying out of the picture; perhaps she's quietly steering me to days when atmospheric and emotional storms are few. Right now it's me, myself and Present I bumbling about; drinking warm caffeinated tea, listening to the rain. Gazing at the still sparkling Christmas lights on the front fence, peering into the darkness of a winter morning. Well, I was doing that until I sat at my computer. Now I'm staring at a bright monitor, mulling over how I have zero interest in writing more than this post. Not that plots have disappeared, I still have more story ideas than sense. But common sense dictates that when so burdened by sorrow, leave the writing. It will be there another day.

Shall it, Present Me wonders, sipping my tea. Will the impetus return after a loved one is gone, beyond the rainy season (for which most Californians are indeed grateful if not ready for a wee break), past the unpleasant sense of fear when the windows rattle or a loud sound emerges. I was especially shaky yesterday as something kept making creaking noises, a bird accidentally bonking against the panes maybe? A Go Bag has been on my list of To Do's, and finally it is underway; change of clothes, spare charged phone, flash drive recently backed up and other bits in case of an earthquake or power outage or UFO landing in the driveway. One never knows, or if Future Me is aware she's smartly keeping her mouth shut. My nerves are stretched quite thinly right now, very little room remains for anything traumatic to be absorbed.

I'm not good at writing when stressed. My creative life prefers peace, or at least the wordy side of my artful endeavors. And I'm not that young anymore. How much age plays into my writing malaise is debatable, but undeniable. Past Me gently reminds me that after Mom died in summer of 2018, I didn't write anything new for two years. TWO YEARS, she huffs softly. Not that I was completely fallow; I did plenty of revisions, yet the necessary energy/passion/drive to create something new was wholly absent. Future Me nods, her arms folded over her chest, not the most encouraging body language, but she's wiser than Past Me, older too. And here I sit between them, my younger self wishing to proffer encouragement while one elder provides understanding for my current predicament. Which is very nice, Present Me smiles at them both, but does little to assuage all my inner turmoil.

I ache for a man facing the end of his life. I cringe for a woman dealing with impending widowhood. I loathe considering all who have lost their homes and peace of mind due to quakes and floods and other natural disasters. My peace of mind is fluid, at times grateful for multiple blessings, then thrown into a dark void, bleh! Past Me sighs while Future Me continues to nod, but her arms no longer grip her upper body in apprehension. Her hands are clasped in front of her, a tender smile on her face. This too will pass, she seems to convey, although when and how remain cloistered. Go easy on yourself, she murmurs, Past Me adding her assent, softly patting my shoulders. Together they step away, then parting to different directions, leaving me to close this post with a smidgen more peace than when I began it. Go easy on myself. Good advice in all circumstances.