Sometimes, I get stuck in the middle.

Between what I think something should be and what it is.

I’m under construction when I want to be finished.

Right now, I am stuck on what I want this blog to be.

Last week, I got excited by the idea of sharing audio.

I planned to experiment with recording something today.

I blocked it out on my calendar.

But it is not happening.

The internet is out.

It is hot.

I can’t focus in this loud cafe.

I have a lot of ideas, but I’m too scrambled to commit to one.

My desire to go with the flow is colliding messily with the reality that…it’s not flowing.

I feel frustrated. Annoyed. Disappointed.

Stewing in these emotions is not why I created this blog.

But being real and sharing my creative process is.

And right now, the realest thing I can say is that I am in it.

My new life here, this week in particular, has been a triumphant explosion of creativity.

I am learning a lot about myself and why I am here.

But right now, it’s not converting into something digested and polished.

It’s a lot of ingredients, spread out all over the counter.

It’s thirteen open tabs, still loading.

It’s 23 lines of text scraping for meaning.

It’s deciding I’m done, with no completion to rest in.

Setting down the pen, closing the laptop, sighing deeply, and moving on.

Trusting that soon, it will feel like flowing again.

But knowing that feeling isn’t on the other side of more grinding.

I’m just running from feeling like I’m failing,

not toward satisfaction.

I’m not bounding forward with the wind at my back and joy in my heart.

And so, with love, and respect for my stuck in the middle-ness,

I say ‘goodbye for now’ and let it be.

I woke up today with a plan for what I was going to write. I made myself breakfast and sat down at the table. Looking at the computer, my stomach dropped. My plan didn’t match what I felt.

When I came up with it, I was excited. But now, it feels like a chore. And forcing myself into a cage is not why I write poetry. I write poetry to find magic in the truth.

I write poetry to guide me toward flow, even when it isn’t what I expected when I turned on the tap.

This morning, turning on the tap, I am in an apartment I’m moving out of, surrounded by objects I have to get rid of in the next ten days. I am overwhelmed by the life my past self created. I’m ready for what’s next. Pero bueno…

I had a whole plan

for what I would write.

But now I feel, “fuck it.”

I’m less than alright.

I don’t want to make something

that misses my pain.

I don’t want to ignore

my stress and my strain.

My stomach feels icky,

my head is a mess.

I’m doubting myself.

I’m afraid and depressed.

I want to write freely,

from the nowest of nows.

And in this very moment,

it just feels like “ow.”

I could push it aside.

I could press on instead.

But that’s what I used to do.

I ended up dead.

?

What if 

I let go of the thought

that perfect is out there,

somewhere else.

?

What if 

I have everything I need,

but never stopped

to check.

?

What if

I bathed in the warmth

of what’s here,

right now.

Here, my inner richness sits,

while I search the whole world

for the treasure I’ve painstakingly carried

every, single, step.

The gold inside

waits patiently to be discovered

the moment you open the door.

An ocean

waves, and waves, and waves,

knowing someday, you’ll come home.

Your hands reach out

to hold you.

Your heart bursts forth

to feel you.

Your eyes long to close

so you can see.

Okay, so that’s the poem I wrote for this week. But here’s the very first thing I wrote:

“Oh god, what am I thinking, I need to get into flow, how will I do that, just keep writing. Listen to something that will calm me. I feel really good about being here. I have some anxiety.”

Sometimes, there’s more to clear out before inspiration strikes. But today, this was enough. Every time I sit down to write, I’m afraid that nothing “good” will surface. But, 9 times out of 10, patience yields something I’m proud to share. If I can stick with it through my mind doubting and struggling to adjust its rhythm, I can find the flow. It helps me to think of it this way, to remind myself that my job is not to try to write. My job is to stay open long enough for my thoughts to get out of the way so something more interesting can come through. Of course, I put my brain to work finding the right words, and shaping what comes out. But if I let it get too involved, it strangles the magic. Here’s to the mindfuck of trying to not try, just the right amount.