Deja Vu

Dear Reader…Oh Dear, Dear Reader, 


I have hit a wall. I had a sneaking suspicion  this would happen sooner or later and well, it seems to be upon me. I have nothing to write anymore. 
I straight up dissed my morning pages the other day because I didn’t want to waste three pages of my pretty notebook writing boring drivel or filling up three pages writing “I have nothing to write, I have nothing to write” like some petulant school girl from years past. (though some of you may argue that image is not too far from reality – hah!) 
I  have not yet written today either. I suck. 
My best guess is that I am at this oh-so-familiar wall because I am on the brink of making some kind of breakthrough. That is what the optimistic therapist angel sitting on my left shoulder says anyways. 
The dark, depressing (she would say “realistic”) angel on my right shoulder, however, has a differing opinion. She thinks it simply means I really have nothing of interest to say, no creative talent, hence nothing more to write. Duh. 

I don’t think it is ironic to mention that this week, week 5 is “Recovering a Sense of Possibility.” 
Possibility. 
This is possible. Creating and writing good stuff is possible. But you gotta work at it, right? This is when the tough get going – you know, when the going gets tough. Or as Cameron says, “Pray to catch the bus, then run as fast as you can.” This is when you start to run. Or, if you are me, this is when you say “Ah, I didn’t really want to do that anyways. I think I’ll just go home.” 
Argh! 
This post is titled “Deja Vu” because, you guessed it, I have been here before. This cliff, this precipice, this fork in the road and I almost always stop. Retreat. Go somewhere warm and lick my psychological wounds. In fact, I recently came across an entry in an old diary that illustrates this point quite well. 
I must have been about 9 or 10 and was at the local pool one summer with a friend. We were having a blast – hanging on the side of the pool, playing  Marco Polo and splashing around. I’ve never been much of a fish, but can certainly have fun splashing around with my friends who are. Somehow I decided it would be fun to go off the high dive that day. So I waited in line and when it was my turn I began to climb the ladder. I was nearly to the top (if not at the top, the memory gets a little fuzzy here – you’ll see why in a moment) when I thought “Uh. Hey. This is not such a good idea. I don’t want to do this after all. I’m going back down.” 
So I began to climb back down the ladder. This task was made much more difficult by the gung-ho kids behind me in line who were now half-way up the ladder themselves. Plus,  it is much harder to go down a slippery high dive ladder than it is to go up it for some reason (they must have designed it that way.) I got about 6 or 8 rungs from the bottom when my hands slipped off and I fell to the ground, nearly taking another kid out with me. I remember him yelling “Hey! She almost fell on me!”
I was pretty shaken up from the fall and my back was all scratched up too. Plus I was totally embarrassed. And ready to go home and lick my wounds. 
So here I am, again, some 30+ years later doing the same thing. Full of vim and vigor I began to climb up this high dive ladder and now that I am near the top I want to stop and turn around. Get off this damn thing. It’s scary up here, the water is a long ways away and I am not a very good swimmer. 
Really, I am stuck. I don’t know what the glue is that is keeping me here in this spot. Fear? It must be, but of what? 
I suppose there is only one way out of this spot I am in. I gotta write my way out of it.
Tryin’ to Write On, 
J
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