I sit, my fingers poised above the keys, ready to rapidly fire thoughts, emotions, lessons I’ve learned. Yet, my hands grow weary of holding the pose and my eyes glaze over as I stare at the blinking cursor.
It is not as though I have nothing to write about, rather; it is a matter of wanting to write. I do want to share my stories – the great challenges of being a mother, being a wife, being a student, being allergic to certain foods. I want to share my victories and my growing edges. Instead, my eyes keep wandering to the window. I get lost for a while gazing at the trees, the sky and the bugs buzzing around.
I don’t want to write. I don’t want to clean house. I don’t want to be outside in the 89 degree weather (feels like 101 per weather app). And if it were cooler I wouldn’t want to be in my yard anyway with its fences and obstructed view. There is no horizon in suburbia. There are no wild, sweeping landscapes and no sense of freedom here, outside, for me.
This is my summertime sadness. It does not envelop me this year as it has in the past but it does impact my creativity. The humidity ways heavy on my body like a thousand blankets. My mind returns to a technique used in yoga – I acknowledge the discomfort I feel in my body and seek places to soften the areas that feel tense. I use my breath. I breathe in purpose. Exhale waste. Inhale certainty. Exhale tension.
A Colorado native transplanted in Texas.