I've been fussing and fretting way too much.
Today is going to be a worry free day. To hell with it. In fact, I'm going to read a book. Yes, that's what I'm going to do. Pick a nice book and read it.
Mow the lawn, go for a walk, watch the Sunday shows.
But no thinking about my writing. I've worked through all the ramifications, I've a pretty good idea of what's going on and what my reaction will be. Any more fussing, and I'm just churning over the same thoughts.
I enjoyed writing a poem yesterday. Poems are pure inspiration, tapping into the creative part of myself without any regard to results. Because generally, the only one who will read my poem is myself. That is, the joy is in the creating.
I'd like to do more of this. Remember that I can be creative without an ulterior motive.
Sitting high on a red rock road,
Distant traffic on the highway below
Curves cut by trees, and pebbles rolling,
Down a gentle but persistent slope,
Here where no one else has been,
Or will be, at this moment.
Silence, but for a high away plane,
The wind low and sweet.
I doubt myself and my writing,
But my words are what they are,
The story is as the story,
And my job to get out of the way.
The art of the moment,
The words of today,
The musings for tomorrow,
It’s what I’ve always wanted,
Fulfilled as what it is,
A gentle, persistent warning,
Not to stay dormant.
To live on a red rock road,
Distant from these worries,
Set apart from the world,
A land of my blessed own.