Creation

Depression sucks.  It continues to suck.  It sucks endlessly.  Sir tried to help today (not that he doesn’t try every day).  He dragged me out shopping.  For groceries, but also to the art store where he bought be good markers (for my tangling) and two drawing journals (for my tangling).  I ate pork rinds and macadamia nuts in the car on the way home (so much I didn’t eat any dinner) and Sir was annoyed.

We sat out on the porch for two hours and I tangled all evening.  I’m making progress.  I’m seeing the potential for meditation, and the difficulty in my mindfulness.  But I tried.  None of it is very pretty, or even very good.  But I’m getting better at being okay with that.  I can see it as practice…. see it better than I could before.

And I’m starting to wonder if I need to do the same thing with writing… somehow.  I’m not sure yet how that will work, but…  I have a feeling that… just posting this… like… life… on my blog is good for my discipline of writing.  It’s good for keeping the channel in my brain that get stopped up on words open and flowing… but it isn’t practicing my art in writing.  It’s just… talking.  On a keyboard.

So, I’m wondering if I need to find some sort of writing practice… artful writing practice.  If I could somehow be… able to write… poorly… but did it every day… let the art of it come, without the judgment.  Like tangling for two hours and… not liking anything I created, but… being okay with that…  Then maybe… maybe then I could find my real art again.

Maybe.

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