After finishing up “Close to Home” last winter, I slowed down a bit with the writing in order to try and catch my breath. About two months ago, however, I started getting the itch to dive again into another big project – an itch I tried and tried to convince myself would be crazy to scratch at the moment (I don’t exactly have a lot of free time on my hands). “I will wait,” I prayed, “wait for some kind of direction.”
So out of nowhere – I mean, literally, like a bolt from the sky – I was struck last week with an inspiration that finally felt right. And now,oh boy, I have officially taken on a whole new existance, one probably best compared to pregnancy what with all of these emotions and symptoms (excitement, terror, hunger, nausea) commandeering my mind and body. Having more of an understanding this time of the risks involved in throwing yourself into a birth process, I tell you candidly that I am proceeding here with a great deal of fear and trembling. Already, our dinners have been simplified, my keys have been misplaced repeatedly (thanks for letting me borrow your car, Paige, to take Mary to pre-school), and my kids have started asking again, “Mama, who are you talking to?” as I work aloud my jumbled thoughts into clear lines and paragraphs while folding the laundry. Ah, if only the evenings were longer (or if I could subsist on but five hours of sleep)!
I’ve no idea where all this is heading or what the final outcome will be. For now, I’m just trying to show up every day in faith at my computer, to ignore the taunting doubts floating ominously around my head, whispering, “you can’t do this.”
I read the following poem yesterday and it really struck a chord with me. For more great poetry picks click HERE, as always!
Lament of the Maker
What wonders I’ve performed, with leaping mind,
imagining the fruit while eyeing the seed,
conjuring what’s ahead while still behind,
savoring praises for the undone deed.
I have esteemed my skill so highly that
I stroll through mansions I have yet to build
and, like the seigneur or the plutocrat,
reap harvests from rich fields I have not tilled.
But when I face the drudgery of art,
bright mirrors where misunderstandings lurk,
my faltering strength just when the need is great,
I faint before the task—or rashly start,
push through to make an end, survey my work,
and smile—how fine, how small, how light in weight!