It's not the humidity; It's me. I say that to my computer when all the spells in the world won't make the words pour forth. The routine is there, arrive at the desk, open computer. Write.
When I don't? Well, it's sort of like the dating delima when you break up before you begin, or uncouple before you refer to the person your dating as we; 'We are having dinner or going to the game, movie, slam...' A protracted running start, as a friend of mine calls my struggles.
Solution? If you blog it they will come...Readers, the writing. So, what if the blog is built but the writing won't budge? What then?
Last week I went to an energy workshop; actually I've been running my spiritual ass off in my physical body of course, to try and fix this stop and start write not write not right now, maybe later flow. I had my chakras balanced and unblocked several times. In fact, I think I'm becoming a psychic slut, swapping readings for treatments; going to churches I'd long since abandoned to light candles and petition saints I only hope are listening to intervene on my behalf.
Let the writing come, oh lord, great Gia. Guides, invisible entities that you can call on for help such as finding your glasses or car keys or parking spaces at the mall, are in my service too. In the fuzzy nether world that has become my menopausal brain, I now hear the dulcet tones of Sara Mclachalan singing "Send me an Angel" Oy. And so Archangels Michael, Urial, Raphael, and Gabriel, are now my constant companions. I started calling out to them when I felt fear for my self, or my family. Husbands can drop dead at work or fall asleep behind the wheel of a car.
My crazy mixed up mind would go to these extreme, catastrophic thoughts after hearing my beloved complain for weeks on end about fatigue or work. My beautifully, evolved brain would not know the difference between his complaints and reality so it complied with the words and began to pump flight or flight cortisol steroids into my body. If I didn't go to the gym, I was scared and worried all the time. Not good for me or any one else. As I ran along that treadmill, I'd let those crazy making thoughts pour through me, My arms pumping and my breathing steady as I burned them off.
When I run I pay attention to my body, adjusting my stride, making sure my feet are landing heal- toe, my foot rolling smoothly off the treadmill before I plant my other one down in a solid stride. No, thumping, but mindful of muscle and bone, abdominals slightly tightened, breathing. My favorite part, startling me when I pay attention is that I can breath, in, out, deep, lungfuls of air and keep running. Now I have no room for scary thoughts or feelings just strength, and the touch of a wingtip on my shoulder, as I feel the angels, flying beside me.
