I’m up early today – especially for a Saturday, which is the one day of the week when I don’t have rise early to wrangle kids onto the school bus or to arrive at church in time for Sunday School.
I fantasize about sleeping late, but that rarely happens. It seems that my body clock is set to awake at the same time every day.
That’s okay. Saturday mornings have a singular rhythm, restorative and quiet and uniquely mine. It happens that I still rise at my appointed time, but it seems that nobody else does. I have the house all to myself while the new day unfolds.
I make coffee. While it brews I feed the cat, and boot up my computer. I have a few quiet moments on the couch to contemplate the week I’ve just had, and then to consider the week coming up. Soon the rich smell of java fills the house. And then finally, with a hot mug of coffee in one hand and my writer’s journal in the other, I head for my little office corner of the house, and try to write something worth reading – something that, for some strange reason, has been especially difficult lately.
I don’t know why. I’ve started and trashed more drafts this week than I have for the entire year preceding it. I have ideas – great ideas – but can’t seem to transition them from my head to paper. Words seem inadequate.
But I keep trying.
Sometimes I think a writer’s task is impossible. Who do I think I am, trying to encapsulate the emotion behind experiences of love and hate on paper? How could mere words render meaning to ideas like freedom or justice?
I find myself compelled, day after day, to make the attempt. Something in me wants to capture the distinctive qualities of even the most fleeting moments, even though I know before I start that my words won’t be capable of showing the whole story.
How could they?
Yes, writing is slow work at times, and I seem to have little to show for my efforts. I had hoped to write more today, but the house is slowing coming to life around me, pulling me from my thoughts and words. The kids are slamming cupboards open and shut in search of a breakfast worth eating, and the dog is staring at me balefully, trying to prompt me with her mind powers to stop writing and go fill her dog dish with her morning portion of kibble.
That’s okay – I don’t mind the interruption, not really. I’ll write the World’s Best Blog Post tomorrow.
Or maybe the day after that.
It’s hard to say, really.
I’ll keep trying though – I promise.