I’m going to revive this blog. I let her fall into a coma, and the breathing is pained and shallow, but she’s not too far gone.
I’ll attach an IV and pump into her some life-saving nutrients from Anne Lamott, and when she’s strong enough I’ll spoonfeed her with The War of Art from Steven Pressfield. Every day upon waking, I’m going to give her several hours of tender loving care, gentle but persistent nurture. And it won’t be easy. She’ll have to learn to walk again on legs that have atrophied in bed for 14 months. The sentences will be jerky and awkward, like the first steps for the bedridden. The nerves waking up will inflict excruciating pain.
But with faith and persistence, the muscle fibers will grow strong again. If I push aside the self-doubt and hyper-criticism and fear of rejection, my creative muscles will rejuvenate, and I’ll once again be able to express myself through words. To communicate the truth of what I’ve experienced, and eventually connect with others and make them feel things they had forgotten how to feel.
To keep with tradition, I’ll end with a quote from my favorite author:
“Your mind is filled with voices of anxiety, judgment, doom, guilt. Yet somehow in the face of all this, you clear a space for the writing voice, hacking away at the others with machetes, and you begin to compose sentences. It is a matter of persistence and faith and hard work. So you might as well just go ahead and get started.
You may experience a jittery form of existential dread, considering the absolute meaninglessness of life and the fact that no one has ever really loved you; you may find yourself consumed with a free-floating shame, and a hopelessness about your work, and the realization that you will have to throw out everything you’ve done so far and start from scratch. But you will not be able to do so.”
– Anne Lamott