I’ve been suffering from lack of inspiration lately. You
know how when even you find yourself boring? You turn inward to find something meaningful
to say or write and you face a blank page, devoid of anything worth sharing.
I’ve
begun research on a new book…an ambitious project that needs lots of attention.
I’ve got this blog, a web site in development and a short story to shop around.
There are still some 8,000 POW/MIAs waiting to be found. All of these tasks have sat stewing for weeks, gnashing their teeth and spewing
epithets at me. “Get over here and do something with me, you lazy good-for-nothing
wretch.” I’ve managed to turn from each of them, stuff away the guilt and put it
all off to another day.
In retrospect I can see it started when we got ready to put our
house on the market…again. This is its third selling season. Each year we cancel
the listing for the holidays and manage to thoroughly trash the place by Christmas.
So as January rolled around we dragged ourselves into that hideous state of mind known
as Staging the House. How the attic got so full in just a few months is beyond
me. And when did things in the basement crawl out from their corners? Let’s not
mention the damn spices— would it kill them to stay in some kind of order up in
their cupboard?
I will say it feels good to get rid of clothes from high
school that make me feel like a fat woman in the circus dressed up as Bette
Davis’ Baby Jane. And I guess it was
time for the broken VCR and the old bag phone to go. All in all it has been a
productive experience, except that it has taken me over and sucked the
creativity from me as though I’ve had an IV running in reverse.
As I felt myself dissolving into a pasty little blob I cast my listless mind about,
wondering what might call to me. What will return me to life beyond clearing out closets and bagging up yesterdays I can barely remember? Ironically, it was death that brought me back.
In a fit of madness I’d decided to clean up our address book
because, God knows, prospective buyers might look in there to see if we
secretly keep our affairs in a mess, such that they can infer the whole house
is actually ready to fall down. As I turned the pages I came across the name
of a friend of mine who had just died. I hadn’t even known she was ill. She was
a beautiful, inspirational individual and now she was gone. Her name would need
to be deleted. Another friend on the next page. She too must go. Then two
colleagues, my aunt and my uncle. All had passed away recently. Delete. Their
names disappeared and with them went the space they once filled.
I took a walk and came upon a cemetery. Row after row of
headstones stretched over acres. Space filled with people who are not here
anymore. So many lives lived and lives ended. What difference had each of them made
before they moved on? An empty trash bag blew in the wind, rambling over the
graves, somehow emphasizing the nothingness of life after it has passed.
There is a greater purpose to which I aspire, though if
truth be told I’m not sure what it might be. The collective consciousness is a
fine concept, but I would like to rise above the din, at least now and again. I’m
not really sure why but I’ve always wanted to be heard above the crowd, maybe just
a little. And here I’ve been lately just descending into it. I’m not happy with
me.
As I looked at the contingent of head stones, I thought of
the hundreds more waiting to join them each day; people passing through. My day will come around the corner soon enough. I need to consider myself accountable to the time I’ve been given between the womb and the ground
that will hold me. Make something of it, Donna. There is none of it to waste. We are all only riding along until we fall away and time
passes us by.
So now I’m ready to jettison myself from the doldrums. There
is much to discover and much to do before my name is ready to be deleted from
the next guy’s address book.
