Silent Break Through

What do you do when there are no comments? When comments are requested for a purpose.

In this world where conversations take place with thumbs not mouths, and electronic dings alter you to the latest news, how is it that there are so few comments and conversations?

So this is what I did last night when I had to write a post, but I couldn’t.

I sat right down on #5 of the top 10 things to make yourself miserable about your art. I stretched my left arm out and scooped up the first four tasks and then repeated on my right side. I gathered up all the wrong things and sat with them all hot and sticky on my lap.

I dug around for photos. Online. In digital albums and hiding in files on my hard drive.

Not the, “Look Mom! See what I did” kind of photos. More of the he made that and she got this and they got to go there and she was awarded …

I know better.

I also know that sometimes the only way up is down.

The only way through some art/crisis/life lesson is to take a deep breath and dive even deeper.

Back before hospital emergency rooms with wait times posted in blinking lights on billboards, soldiers were often re-wounded in the same spot to try to force healing. Or so I’ve heard.

When you are facing transition in labor, the only way out is through. Through the shaking and tearing pain. Pushing harder through to the blinding white light of redemption.

So I refuse the numb. I walk. I walk more. I skip the ice cream tonight. I sit with those ugly emotions and let their stench get on my clothes. I lie down and close my eyes so that I can see deeper into the darkness.

And I look. Look at what is posted as success for us to see. For me. For me to see where the pain is real and where it just smarts because I know someone would tell me that it should.

I find the edge of what is real and what hurts for it will be my sleeping companion tonight.

Tomorrow. The art will continue.


For the one who was the doula through this creative labor, you, my dear, are awarded the book.


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