loaf

Step away from the computer, return. Now I must have something I wish to write, right? Stepping away from a blank screen gave inspiration the chance to hit me over the head. PSYCH. Although the screen is no longer blank, what I have written feels sluggish and full of struggle. Wuz up wit dat? I have loads of things to write. I have loads of laundry to wash as well. My day is just one load after another, apparently. Saturday is the unofficial day of loads. And loafs. Loafs! I remember baking a loaf of bread every single night for a good two or three weeks. I didn't need the bread. Nobody needed the bread. Well, somebody somewhere must have needed the bread. But they weren't getting the bread. I was getting the bread, all of it, just me. I know you are thinking WTF??? and I am thinking the same thing as well. Sometimes life doesn't provide clear answers to these puzzling questions. All I can say is that I liked the ritual and the routine of bread making. I felt almost like a scientist. Almost. I mostly felt out-of-control and unable to not make bread. So a loaf a night I baked, night after night, until it got to be rather expensive and too bizarre to hide, so I stopped. I moved on to store-bought English muffins. Whole wheat. With little caves for the butter to investigate.

The screen is less blank, less sluggish, and struggling not-so-much. I believe the problem begins with the screen. Why oh why must I only write in front of a screen? It keeps all the good, fleshy stuff at a distance. It is a distraction. It cannot easily fit into my pocket and travel with me up into the canyon full of echos and ghosts. It is a dusty screen intent on destroying my already lousy eyes. Then why oh why must I only write in front of a screen? Does it only have to do with a social construct? Is it only because I find it quicker! and faster! and go! go! go! Well, relax, my dear Meggie. Relax and let the words come more slowly. Let the beating of your heart reach your fingertips and push the pen where it must go on a piece of tried and true paper. Try it. Give it a shot. Shut down the computer and hightail it to the canyon. Keep some rocks from the river in your pocket just in case the paper tries to fly away.

And now I must go away and continue digging myself out of this cluttered life I've created for myself. I created it, yes, which means I can uncreate it and start over. Start over with a pen and a paper and about 1,437,899 less things. Things. Imagine a life with fewer screens and things and far more canyons and creeks. Imagine a life with people and shared meals and stolen moments on rooftops. Imagine that this is sufficient. Imagine that this quiet contentment is absolutely yours. Because it is, because it can be.