I’ve got this strange sort of fear filling me lately. It started a few weeks ago when I knew I would have to quiet my creativity for a while so that I could attend to the tasks of moving and nesting. Now that I’m out of the habit of writing everyday, my hands and mind are hesitant. I’m worried about the quality and quantity of what will come out. I’m worried that the work that I’m about to sit down and edit (at my husband’s and my own nagging voice’s pressing) will shrivel and rot and turn to composted muck in the forest. Has anyone else ever hit a strange sort of wall like this? It’s not exactly a block, it’s more of a hesitation. I don’t like this feeling very much and I want it to go away.
I wanted to write a little something here to get my writing muscle limbered up. However, I’m distracted. Xander is not asleep yet. He’s had the croup which is always scary. The last time we had it we were living in Alaska, and we had just moved into our apartment there. It was a bit easier to treat it then: it was winter and below zero outside. After sitting in our new bathroom that was filled with steam, I put a blanket around his small body and carried him outside for a minute. The shock of the cold after the banya-like heat of the bathroom shook and rattled his lungs into thinking that they were well, that the virus had been frightened away in the middle of the night. As he struggled to breathe, his eyes growing round and frightened, his coughs coming out in painful barks, I pointed out the little floating crystals of ice that filled the air. The ground was soft and wet with new snow, and more was coming down around us. Except for the faint, distant sound of a dog barking, everything was quiet. I could hear the snow padding the earth.
Last night was somewhat less dramatic than that. No midnight glitter in the moonlight. Just the steamy shower, and a quick minute out in the mild Tennessee October night. At one point I thought Gary or I would have to pop over to the 24 hour Walgreens to get some medicine, and I almost sunk to my knees in gratitude over the fact that we once again live somewhere with 24 hour drug stores. As a mother, there is little more beautiful than the fluorescent glow of a Walgreens aisle at 4 pm when your child is sick with fever. There will be relief. There will be calm again.