Pink clouds

Stuck, stuck, stuck!  So, I keep getting the message that I’m supposed to be writing.  But what I don’t understand is WHAT I’m to be writing.  I do well with one-off things.  These blog posts seem to almost write themselves, but when I try to organize them or figure out the what of what I’m supposed to be writing about, I get stuck.

Is there a what?  Is there a point to what I’m to be writing about?  It feels like when I’m actually in the moment, writing, things work well.  But when I try to pull back, look at things from a hawk’s perspective, then I get stuck.

I feel like I’m creating a pointillist painting, only I have no idea what the bigger picture is.  This is just a series of my thoughts about life, the universe and everything, with no coherent structure that I can see.

Do I just keep writing, every day for 90 days and THEN see?  Will a pattern emerge?  Will I be able to see the pattern, or will someone else need to point it out to me?

Well, that’s in the future, and right now, I see a bunch of tiny dots.  Damn dots.  I like the actual typing bit.  The moving of fingers across the keyboard, watching words appear on the screen.  That sound that the keyboard makes.

But again, is there a point?  Does there have to be a point?  I’ve actually got lots of stories where the point wasn’t obvious in the moment.  Hell, my whole life is like that.  The point is only made in the looking back and declaring the point, as a result of analyzing (in my own, extremely vague way) and determining what it was that I learned in that moment.

Maybe I’m just meant to have fun.  Follow my air-like nature, which is different from fire, or water or earth nature.  I’m a leaf on the wind.  I’m a delicate breeze, a tulip, some flitting thing with beauty as a purpose, but maybe no depth?  Do I need depth?

Good question.  Maybe not.  Is this about the nature of things?  Am I trying to be a hawk, when really, I’m just a golden-crowned sparrow?  A bird with a plaintive song and a not-so-golden streak across my head?

Now, I’m grinning.  I actually adore the song of the golden-crowned sparrow, and the fact that the version that I’m used to is the atypical version only makes it more enchanting to me.  And there’s the whole thing about it having a golden-crown, and a few do actually have a bright yellow crown, but mostly, they’ve got this greenish brown stripe across the top of their heads, like a Mohawk.  It’s this chartreuse sort of green, a little bilious and a lot not necessarily attractive.

What I am, is easily delighted by things, when I’m not feeling stuck in some form that I don’t quite understand.  It’s my nature to be a flibberty gibbet. It is also my nature to be able to sit with you in deep silence, in the space between thoughts.  It’s just difficult to write from that place.  They are equally important, the fluff and the depth.  In fact, without the fluff, the depth would have no depth.  Nothing to compare it to.  I was once told by an astrologer that I’m an impossible combination of deep, deep wisdom and child-like foolishness, a holy fool.  And that I can’t have one without the other.  I forget sometimes that it takes both.  I get it in my head that I’m supposed to stay in the wisdom all the time, and only dispense wise thoughts, but then I get bored, distracted by a bird that flew over head, or the pileated woodpecker’s call, and I lose my train of thought.  And that “wise” thought is gone.  But it’s been replaced by beauty.  So, really, is that so bad?