Blocked....

I have had writers block for several days now.....though I still write in my "free for all" journal every singe day, it is not worthy of a blog. Every morning for the last 5 years I have written in a norebook. I generally write first thing in the morning or on the train ride to work, and then again on the ride back. I write with wreckless abandon, with no fear of judgement or that anyone will think I am crazy if they were to read it. There is memoir, and there is writing in a notebook of one's own. I choose the latter.

I say things I would not dare utter out loud. I find feelings and emotions I did not know I had. Joan Dideon said in an interview once that she did not know what her feelings were until she wrote them down. I agree. Sometimes things rise to the surface of the paper, or float off of my pen that are uniquely profound. Sometimes I discover that I am really just angry, or scared, or joyful beyond the pale. Other days I find that I am simply writing statistics. The weather, my weight, how many miles I ran or what Salem Harbor looked like as I crossed the train bridge. If I was really at a loss, I would at least make some sort of a to do list that had no strings attached.

But for the blog, I am looking for something more. Especially since it is slated as a Lenten Blog. There should be depth to this....perhaps some themes unfolding into a sequence that unravels as we move towrd Holy Week and then Easter. Clearly the onstensible profundity of my blog has given way to writer's block. Instead of faking it (you all will know if I do), I give it a rest. I am still, or even, in some cases, silent. And, I am restless. And I am eager. I am ready for the door of spring to break open on it's rusty hinges and give us all a final sigh of relief.

Spring will perhaps take away the rememberances of my parents deaths, which both occured in March. My father 18 years ago, and my mother only last year. Sitting in grief, restlessness, and the surprise winter of March is hard stuff. If I don't move around enough, I am forced to be with all of this. It is uncomfortable and gray. It is not uplifting. I am still craving the first crocus or daffodil, as if those lovely and colorful signs will drag me out of the doldrums. But I think not. I think there is work right here, right now in the gray of March, in the hour of my unsettled and uncertain pangs of grief, there are seeds. The soil is covering them now but they too will sprout as these days wear on. I know it, I feel it, and I pray it.

For today, I am thankful for my husband, children, and my work. I am thankful for my health, and the roof over our heads and the friendships that light my life. I am thankful for the Monastery and the grace the brother's bring. I am thankful for my father David, and my Mother Jane, for bringing me life and I pray that Iwill be all that I can be. Amen.