I used to shame myself for procrastinating before sitting down to write on days I have set aside for working. I would putter and clean the house in pajamas and listen to music for hours before dragging myself to the desk. I couldn’t figure out why I did this when writing is what I love to do. Once at the desk I can sit for hours on end unable to be pulled away for meals. But the getting there is a slow and tedious dance of will. I’ve discovered that this dance is a part of the process. Little by little I make peace with this so called procrastination rather than inducing self ridicule. There are important messages downloading as I sweep the kitchen. There are thoughts being combed as I scrub the toilet or mend a shirt I haven’t worn in years. Maybe I just need to busy my hands with something mindless so the thoughts have a place to gather or to receive them from the universe before translating them to a form that can be met with my pen. Other days it’s seamless. A poem will spill out at 4am because I can’t sleep until it’s had it’s way with me. And it’s like that. An unruly child I sometimes have to coax into the bathtub and other times can’t peel from my arms. I am merely the conduit for something outside that needs a meal or a shower and I can be there to hold the towel when they are finally ready to exit the tub.
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