This is a departure from most of my other posts, which normally I carefully massage until what I’ve written matches what I want to say. But lately, inspiration and ideas have felt stuck – my creative muse frustratingly irritatingly silent. Yet as I look at the sun hiding behind a cloud and feel the breeze blowing in my open window (a rare treat in the Twin Cities at Thanksgiving), I am not feeling so blocked as I am quiet. And it occurs to me that maybe my own creative silence is far less a problem than I have been thinking.
So in the twenty minutes I have before I leave for a holiday feast, I will consider that maybe my perceived blocks have been self-induced, a symptom of my own impatience – a calling to remember that everything unfolds in its own perfect timing.
I could issue a list of all the things for which I am truly grateful. And I would mean them all. But the words would likely not convey what is in my heart, inevitably leading me to adjust and cajole the language while missing the gifts right in front of me. So instead, I’ll depart from my normal process and my neuroses. And I’ll breathe for a moment and simply give thanks.