I have had a serious case of writer’s block lately. Not knowing whether I was just a block head or maybe something worse….I could never write a simple paragraph again. I am sure that you have been there more than once. The world will not fall apart if I don’t write something. In fact, I have a good feeling that it will thrive just fine. But writing is something fun to do, and it needed a band-aid. So, my best weapon was music.
Only the birds enjoy my piano music. Maybe they think it is some strange other worldly species singing to them through these walls. All I know is that they start chirping louder. Maybe they are trying to drown out the “noise.” But in any case, I have never sat at the piano, and been at a loss for notes like writing can be a loss for words.
I’m in love with music because the world news isn’t there. If there is a burden on my back, it will roll away by about the fifth minute. It is all those endorphins that rush in to push everything else out, and I’m free like an eagle flying and knowing it has to go back to the craggy cliff but in just a minute…just a minute.
It is pure adoration of how the notes work, fit into harmony, and how to make them talk back. Play it sad, and then play it happy. Stay with it long enough and some new improvisation makes its way to the keys. The music gives back. There is no conversation, push and pull, or wondering if the keys will not sing to me. They always will, and I will be there so grateful for the blessing of music. The birds have their own opinion.
Writer’s block is a curious predicament. You know how to write a sentence, but you can’t at the same time. Don’t laugh, but for me I am sure there are some concrete dust bunnies in my brain that are stopping the flow of words. I need a broom. But maybe we shouldn’t call it a block as if there is no way through the problem. Maybe it should be considered a good reason to stop. Stop and do something else creative until the mo-jo comes back. Isn’t that a great word? Mo-Jo sounds exactly what it means: fuel power for the soul.
Tonight, I played the piano again. It pitifully lacked energy. I was furiously trying to sweep up those concrete piles, and it wasn’t sounding so heavenly. The worst practice in months, but I kept telling myself to just keep going. And I swear, eight-thirty at night I heard a bird sing. He must have just settled in for rest, and decided to tell me off for a minute. It was several sleepy sounding chirps, and then he was quiet. He was either bored to zzzzzzzzz’s, or he was too tired to gripe about the notes. The practice ended up with my ever twirling blond mind hearing a new melody on the keys, and in my soul. A sweet bird singing at night is so rich with symbolism I will not bore you with those observations. You get it, and your writer’s block will be able to dance around only so long before it stops. It has to lose its power at some point.
I like what Picasso had to say, “If you are stuck in a painting, then stop and draw something else. Draw a flower and put your love into that flower Then your powers will come back again.” I guess the guy knew a little something about creativity.
“Picasso was exceptionally prolific throughout his long lifetime. The total number of artworks he produced has been estimated at 50,000, comprising 1,885 paintings; 1,228 sculptures; 2,880 ceramics, roughly 12,000 drawings, many thousands of prints, and numerous tapestries and rugs.At the time of his death many of his paintings were in his possession, as he had kept off the art market what he didn’t need to sell. In addition, Picasso had a considerable collection of the work of other famous artists, some his contemporaries, such as Henri Matisse, with whom he had exchanged works.” ( source: the-artists.org)
If it weren’t 2:35 a.m., I would practice the piano but for now I need to be happy that I wrote a paragraph at all! How did I get Picasso, sleepy birds, a very strange rooster, writer’s block, and mo-jo all in one post? Not only do I not know how it happened I am not even sure that I should have at all. But I am blaming it all on my brain dust bunnies.