Yesterday, in Rosen movement, I spoke of how I had been holding my hand in a fist the last few days. We worked with how the hand is connected through muscles and nerves, front and back, to the heart. As I "tried" to work on the book, as I placed demands on myself, I tightened up, and nothing could come forth. And there is a place for break. This morning, I place no demand, and my hand and fingers are fluid and loose. Play is me. I am play.
My brother visited Mark Twain's home in CT. recently. He has this to say.
In Mark Twain's house, his office was up on the third floor and it's where he wrote and also he and his buddies hung out. No girls allowed. They had a pool table right in his office and he had two desks, one of which faced the corner, away from the distraction of the pool table and the view of the river. But he also had up against one wall a fairly large structure of cubbies in which he would throw different writing projects he had been working on and become stuck. Then he would randomly go back through them at some point and find one that he could now rejoin with new enthusiasm and creativity. You can't force creativity, sometimes you do just have to walk away.
Oddly, when I gave myself permission for a break from the book, something changed. My writing this morning is what I have been waiting for. Jane and I have found new places to bring forth as we look at how we were changed by this year and what writing has always meant to us, and somehow without our even noticing, our vehicle has come to us, or we to it. The writing is here and we are chauffeur-driven. Thank you!!