After getting slammed with a particularly atrocious cold in November, I
quit writing and watched lots of Star Trek reruns and played way too much Uno.
While I'm finally feeling better, I still don't want to pick up the quill. Not
until January, anyway. Truthfully, I've lost the motivation to write even more
word. I need a break. Fallow ground to germinate new ideas.
My mother passed away in 2008, but I will always treasure the emails
she sent me while I was at college, and her constant encouragement to pursue my
stories:
"Don't be afraid of what lies ahead. Just love your dreams, and go
for them. See what happens. You'll always regret it if you don't."
"Take care, and follow your dreams. They are the best part of
you."
"Just remember that I love you to pieces, and I believe in you
totally and completely."
"If I could I would take every pain and trial from you, but then
you could not grow, and I cannot do it anyway."
Despite these wonderful words, I must confess that for the past few
months I have felt terrified that I had nothing left inside me worth saying.
That all my stories are irrelevant, especially in a world with so much sadness
on a global scale, from climate change, struggling economies, wars, and mass
migrations of refugees. What could I possibly say in the face of all this
sorrow that matters?
I don't know yet. But I do believe there is a difference between fallow
ground and wallowing grounds. I refuse to give into useless self-pitying. I
want to open my mind and heart to the goodness of the universe and learn how to
better share it. As the poet Sara Teasdale said in her poem "Night,"
"Look for a lovely thing and you will find it, / It is not far--/It never
will be far."
