{creative blocks and sacred journeys}

It’s not that I can’t write.
I can.
I am here…writing.
The tasks that require my words are getting done.
But sitting down to write to you.
To find the words to fill this space.
This place where I want my weavings to be most fully embodied.
Is proving difficult.

I write from this space between my hips.
It is there that I anchor.
There that I rest.
It is dense and wild.
It is alive.
And I miss it.
I can’t find it.
I know it is there.
Because it is always there.
But sometimes the door changes shape.
Or the passageway hides behind my breath.
Sometimes I just can’t find my way in.
No matter how hard I try.

I know to begin in my throat.
And follow the spiral down.
Casting my knowing to the points below.
Hoping that I will be remembered to the landscape of my being.
But somewhere.
Just under my ribs, I lose myself.
An airy wave washes over me.
I fall into the soft webs woven once upon a time when I was too afraid to venture to the deep.
I get tangled.
And am offered only silence when what I ache for are words.

I wander my yard.
Hoping the earth pulls me in.
The crows cry above.
They know.
They always do.
I wish for tears because the heat of their wealth might melt away what I cannot see.
I sit on the edge.
Watching the world spin around what I crafted from my dreams.
I try again.
Again.
Again.
I spin and twirl.
Grasp and burn.
There are moments.
Fleeting.
Where I can feel what I ache for almost return from wherever it goes.
But it fades before I can reach the threshold.

I have been making this descent for years.
It is the most sacred journey of my days.
I know that tomorrow, I will try again.
I know that one day soon.
I will find the door.
I will remember the secret word.
I will land within.
And it will have been worth the quest.
Because the world from which I create is home.
And nothing can keep me away for long.