9-8 On writing, close skunk encounters, a past life?

Land Between the Lakes, Kentucky

I feel writer’s block creeping in… Thought I’d try what I do when meditating — step out of my body of thoughts and look at it with an uncritical eye.

So I see these thoughts — these doubts about writing (and being able to keep writing) — and I decide to write about it here and expose ’em to the light of my pen.

It works, relieving internal pressure to break that logjam, allowing my mind to relax and uncork the writing mojo.

Really when I do this stepping back and looking at these thoughts I’m seeing my inner critic. And always it’s the inner critic that kills creativity.

I see these inner critics kill many a good personal blog. Part of the cause is thinking in “writing for an audience” mode.

Write for yourself instead.

Treat your blog like a personal journal that happens to be open to all on the web.

We are always thinking. Writing transfers these thoughts to paper and helps process ’em. Sometimes it susses out the meaning of what you’re really thinking.

Thoughts are also fleeting. I carry a pocket notebook wherever I go to jot down things I want to write about. Otherwise I’m pretty much guaranteed to forget what I wanted to write about when I sit down with my notebook.

FINALLY after several days of furious battles, I snagged that pesky little sucker. I hold the Big Fly Swatter aloft and do a sweet victory dance.

Deep in meditation, I abruptly find myself somewhere in the Colorado mountains at the edge of a rocky creek in a clearing. The air is pristine and sky crystal clear.

There I am crouched, repeatedly stretching and soaking a large, roughly circular patch of animal skin in the water.

Just as abruptly, I snap back and emerge from meditation.

Later after researching, I learn I was preparing the animal skin to be used as the surface of a ceremonial drum.

Was what I saw a glimpse of a past life?

I do wonder if I ought to wear a shirt that says “I CAN’T HEAR SHIT” on the back (sounds better than I’M DEAF, right?) on those multi-use trails that have bikers on ’em.

I’m sure many bikers have tried alerting me from behind on a trail to pass by and were wondering why the arrogant dork wouldn’t budge or move over.

This afternoon a tiny, feisty spider hopped on the side of my mug of freshly brewed chai tea and bolted right off, likely uttering HOT! HOT! Hee hee.

On the way back from my nightly sunset viewing at the overlook, I nearly step on a skunk in the trail of darkness.

The skunk was startled too, tail shooting straight up. I truly thought I was about to get sprayed.

Instead it scurried off under a fallen log.

Thank goodness it’s phew, not pew (oh yes another bad pun).

Those skunks pass through camp to say hi. They have a distinctive odor that precedes their presence — a faint musk of burnt rubber tires. So whenever I smell it I know they’re nearby rootin’ around fer dinner.