Speechless

The flow of words has dried up

Earlier this week, I couldn’t even speak. My voice was raspy, or husky, hard to tell from inside my own skull. I didn’t record it. When you’re in the stress, you stop being curious. At least, I do, but I believe there is data to back that up. You need to have the spare brain cycles to do things like explore nonsensical ideas. In the thick of it, you are focused on what can be done, if anything, and if not, just dealing with the helplessness of reality means that you don’t have the energy to think, let alone step outside of the usual routines.

You may have gathered that I’m past that point. I couldn’t even write this post, and text has generally been easier for me than the spoken word. I have come through the rain of emotional blows and come to grips with the new reality. I cried through the night, wrecked my vocal cords, and finally, got the extra sleep I needed to recover from that. Now, I am not out of the rapids entirely. I’m still caught up in the current without paddles and I know it’s going to be rough again. I also have enough history and experience to realize that when I can rest, and think, and live, I need to. I can’t let my grief overbalance me entirely, particularly as this was only the beginning. Or perhaps, it is the middle. With a river, the analogous section means that it’s a drop in level, where the flow is rapid and the rocks are near the surface, bringing turbulence to play. I’m needed in life to do the mundane of housekeeping and work and support for family. I have to shove all the messy tears and snot and sorrow away, so I can think, and write.

How well I’ve managed is up for question. However, among all the other lessons, I’ve learned that writing, like building a muscle, takes consistent work. The little gray cells, they fall asleep when unused, and I must wake them up and put them to an activity again. Something like, perhaps, this essay on regaining the ability to speak, to write, and to express myself coherently when I’ve been struck dumb.

Even my typing fingers aren’t working the way they were. I’ve missed my Taco Tuesday, my Wednesday prompt post over at MOTE went up but it’s sad and frail - much like how I felt while composing it. I get distracted, and if I don’t hold myself to the rhythms of life and creativity, it is hard to get back into it. The longer I let myself drift, the more difficult it is to find my way back to the right channel - the channel I’d chosen. Is it the right one? Dunno. That’s a philosophical question for another time. I just know that I want order now, and after a few days of chaos, I’m imposing it on myself since the world laughs at my feeble attempts.

No one is dead, it’s just more sickness and sorrow. Life is filled up with it, but I refuse to dwell there. I am going to keep moving, keep working with my words, towards hope and healing and the future that is bound up in my children and all the others out there. Stopping is not an option. Momentum is harder to regain than it is to maintain. So here I am, tip-tapping away at the keyboard, trying to keep the egregious spelling mistakes to a minimum, and not worrying too much about overall composition. That will come, I am sure. Today, it’s just about letting the words come out, opening the tap and stepping back from the spurt of pressure due to emotions. It will ease up, I will come back to the imagination and craft in all due time.

Until then, I am your faithful correspondent,

Cedar