Unmoored

It's the beginning of the year

and I feel unmoored, unsure 

what direction to swim in.

Do you feel unmoored, too?

Here we are waiting for the wind 

to offer us a clue, treading water,

floating in place, befuddled by the way

uncertainty replaces certainty.

At the moment it's impossible 

to choose which way to go.

All paths have been erased,

all destinations hidden,

so how can we find the route 

we're meant to follow?

How long can we keep treading 

water before sinking to the bottom?

What is keeping us afloat?

Maybe it's all just a matter of allowing 

ourselves a chance to rest, 

to step out of the water,

to regain our strength. 

Maybe this is how to let the well fill up again?

Listen, it's the beginning of the year, 

and there's hope that a path will appear 

tomorrow or maybe the next day, 

and that we'll know what we didn't know 

a moment ago: the path we're meant to follow,

the way we're meant to go.

You must embark

Each morning you put pen to paper hoping words will appear. 

You never know what you'll write and so you write to find out what you're thinking, what you're feeling.

First, you have to summon the courage to face the blank page. 

Only then can you begin the journey you need to make to an unknown place.

Yes I know, you're unsure of your destination, the same way a bird might lose its way in a storm, and you might seek familiar landmarks that tell you which way to go, and where home is, and how to get there.

Only there are no landmarks. 

There are no signs pointing the way. 

You know only one thing: you must embark. 

You must step into the water. 

You must start swimming.

Even though you have no clue where you're going.

Or how you'll get there.

Leaping into the fog

With each story or poem you must leap

not knowing how it will turn out

whether you can find your way into it 

(and out again), 

whether the words will come, 

whether you'll find the answers to the questions 

you need to ask, 

whether the questions themselves will appear 

or if you'll be left stranded 

staring at a blank page 

stuck 

unable to move 

unable to see through 

the fog of uncertainty, 

not knowing what you don't yet know 

until your pen begins to move 

your fingers start to type

and a path appears 

only after you leap 

into the fog... 

It's just the way 

the writing process works...