From time to time my muse leaves me sitting dry at the keyboard. Usually, she quietly departs, slipping away in the middle of the night without leaving a note. I pine for her and call to her with no reply. Eventually, she returns bearing gifts of clarity and flowing words.
Then, there is this time.
This time she announced her departure and slammed the door with a force that shook my foundation. Here I remain, with much to say but lacking words of lucidity.
It’s said that time heals and I say bring on the future and bring it fast. Allow me to wish away a small piece of the very essence of life that is time. Rescue me from this beach and touch me with a small drop of inspiration... of redemption. Return to my side and guide me through my quagmire of jumbled lexicon.
Being human it’s a given that at some time and some place I’ll unintentionally and without malice step on a toe, fail to put the honor of others first, and generally make a muck of things. It’s just a matter of time until an error bubbles up from the pit of fallibility. How you handle the transgressions lays the difference between good and bad. Like my grandmother would tell me, “Don’t worry about making mistakes because you’ll make more.” She also showed me how to set things right: acknowledge, repair, ask for forgiveness, atone, and forgive yourself.
There is a plan to get my muse back... there's always a plan of action. It's in my training I will make my call to inspiration. I will not remain swimming in sorrow, riding hills of humiliation, or running roads of pain. No, no, that’s not my way. Instead, I'll remember the words of John Bingham and see my bike and running shoes as giant erasers. With every swim, every pedal stroke and foot strike I rub away some memory of a previous error. Each successful mile releases me from the grip of the dreams of failure and every starting line is a chance to prove that my past will not determine my future.