Like anything you lose because you don’t use it, creative brain cells can atrophy. Words set aside and forgotten. Ideas on scraps of paper that fade with time, or fall apart from being carried from place to place, but never put down on something harder, more concrete, permanent.
You know your ability to create was not a fluke. It was there for years, from childhood, beyond adulthood.
Then you don’t feel like writing one day, then the next, and the next. Then one of those next days becomes a year. Those journals you were filling month after month, take a year to finish.
Then comes the journal you never finish. It’s as if you stopped living. There’s nothing to write about.
Then came you.
You brought that back to me. You filled my creative well with inspiration. Feelings that were new, made life exciting, like unexpected gifts, an unwarranted bouquet of flowers on your work desk, or doorstep.
Sunshine bursting through dark clouds.
A heart stilled, skipping a beat smoothly, like that thrown stone across the water. Ripples building and spreading further and further until they reach the other side and the entire pond is nothing but happiness. A love so strong that it pulls you under, and you gulp for air, your heart and lungs full to capacity with immeasurable pleasure.
Butterflies of delight flutter and lift you up because you’re as light as a feather. And you cannot stop writing because there’s too much to say, words flowing faster than your fingers can type.
So you put them here this time. Some place harder, more concrete, permanent.
I’m not thinking anything, I’m just trying to make a sandwich.
It’s like this. I’m in the kitchen setting out bread, lettuce, tomato, mayo. There’s the plate, and there’s a knife. There’s bacon, crisp and hot.
And my mind is like,
“So what are we going to write about next? Are we blogging? Are we going to write on the Chris story? What about the poems? How about working on blog pages, or Instagram? You have to figure out how to get the pics off your PC and onto your phone so you can post them to Instagram. Wait here’s a thought for a story.“
Then I’m like, stop it. Be quiet. I’m trying to make a sandwich. I’m hungry. I don’t have pen and paper, only sandwich supplies in front of me, and now I’m thinking I need another gadget. Just one more gadget to add to my endless supply of gadgets and computer accessories. I have the mike that connects to my computer and texts the words I speak. Now I want that mike on steroids. The one that streams to my computer, so my computer can type my words, while I’m in the kitchen, trying to make a sandwich.
I have broken free. Let me rephrase that. She has set me free. I am the ‘her’ who does not hide, who will not bite our ‘collective tongue.’ There will be warm and fuzzy here, but there will be cold and jagged. There will also be shards of glass on a path that will hopefully, be frequently traveled, so please watch your step. There will be an ongoing series of an online relationship between us and a person who has captured our heart as no one has ever captured it before. This will be raw posting because we will be cutting and pasting the actual conversations. Spoiler alert, there is a 35 year age gap between us and this person, and we wouldn’t be making a note of this if we were the younger one. The we, and us on this blog is ‘her’ who has her own blog here on WordPress, and me, who is her ‘mind’, keeping us honest. So the texts we’ll be posting will be, what Chris (our person) says, what she says, and what I am thinking. Other conversations between me (her mind) and her, take place in our kitchen, so we’ve dubbed these posts, Kitchen Blogs, with different subtitles. Most of this will be Chris related, but there are other men in our life, and you’ll learn about them in the kitchen, or other rooms. So come on and join us, let’s see what’s going on, and also, what’s cooking.