Walking back to writing
It's been awhile! It seems I have been stuck in some vortex of inertia lately. Life gets busier and I have been physically, emotionally and spiritually spent. During this malaise my writing passion has seemed a strange luxury and has sat nicely in the too hard basket. Sort of like my backside in my favourite comfy chair which I have moulded myself into, staring at nothing but the sound of white. The silence envelops me and I just sit. I like silence as much as I like to indulge myself in nothingness. Creativity does not grow in this stagnant space, it floats around you as everything seems mundane and at times pointless or just too much of an effort. At times I have felt the urge to rage against the machine , fight the good fight. But then I remember I'm just to tired and I go back to my chair, comforted in the knowledge that I would soon have time away and long service leave. Four weeks of a special kind of silence , of long walks, no clocks, of no responsibility.
Home to my muse where creativity will find me in the simple flux of just being.
It is strange that I don't walk where I live in the suburbs, the bleakness makes me afraid. There are of course lovely parklands and a river walk but I would never be brave enough to walk there alone and so the first thing I did when I returned to my spiritual home was walk. Unafraid I headed deep into the bush, the green of the gums glistened with the early morning rain, occasionally a gentle drop would land on my head or roll down my glasses. I held my face to the treetops , opening my mouth hoping to catch a wayward drop. I used to do that as a child, catch rain with my mouth , I wondered in that moment why I stopped.I focussed on my steps as the gnarled tree roots pushed across the path, made visible by the rivers of silt that had been washed away by autumn rains. I watched for the ant nests waiting for the dark red bull ants to pop up from their home comforted in the fact they were no match for my sturdy hiking shoes. I lifted my face to the wind and felt the sharp needles of fresh air , I was alive I could feel it. Up ahead my adopted puppy scampered and jumped amongst the bushes, chasing invisible sounds, occasionally she would run back to me with a stick or just to nuzzle her wet nose against my hand, a silent show of camaraderie. The smell of a far off bush burn still lingered in the air mixed with the sweet smell of gumtrees, I inhaled its delights with all I had. I began to see words and a story in everything , the hidden bush track, the weathered tree trunks, the reclusive houses amongst the bush setting, the colour of the sky and earth. It all formed part of a story, a memory of a time that was . It was time to write.