PROCRASTINATION

What is procrastination — laziness or fear? Is this inability to just get started and begin whatever it is we are called to do, really a reflection of of our terror that perhaps we won’t eb able to do it, that we aren’t good enough, that everybody will finally see through us for the frauds that we are? Ooooh all these critcal inner voices!

Most teenagers are horribly familiar with these piosonous voices and I certainly suffered from more than my fair share. Yet these same freezing breezes that blew through my transparent and fragile soul, also birthed the longings and yearnings for something different. This was when I discovered the gift of soul dancing, though I never would have called it such back then, and in fact have only recently discovered that it is considered an acceptable route to ones deepest, darkest, inner sanctum. Using movement as a freeway to my soul I danced into my longings, alone with wild and fierce abandon. I danced when I was happyand the vibrant juices of life coursed through my veins, pumping my heart into overload until I was sure that it would burst and flow warm and dark through the edges of the worn out floorboards. I danced also when I was angry, allowing all that aggression and frustration to race through the highways and byways of my arms and legs, my limbs daring anyone who came near to try, just try and stop me now. Afterwards when my energy had spent itself, dissipating in rivulets of sweat that ran down my back, I lay down and wept in utter exhaustion and tiredness. Sadness often brushed her wings across my cheeks fluttering near my heart.

These days sometimes I dance, but mostly I don’t. Quite simply I am just too tired to even consider it, which ought to awaken alarm bells really that something isn’t as it ought to be. For a long time dancing was a way in to the creative rooms of my inner being. Recently my creativity is expressed through writing — poetry or journaling mainly, though sometimes it feels very adventourous to attempt a brief story, albeit very brief! Loud rhythmic music interferes with that. So for the time being at least turning on some rock music would have to join the list of possible procrastinations…..

Chasing Art

The studio is cozy in winter’s reach to spring
Papers drift, display their wares to see what muse might bring.
Clients work delivered, banking balances done
So I can have the afternoon to let the muses run.
The evening is promised to the husband who complains
that we don’t see each other often when others pick my brains
or soul or heart or fingers worn down to the bone.
He needs some real attention, he’s been too long alone.

I have all day! The studio calls, but then the cats begin
they want their food, the litter scooped, and then the doorbell rings.
The postman wants a signature, and when I turn to go
downstairs, I sneeze, and the top pant button blows.
I sew it up, and while I have the needle and the thread,
I might as well sew up the cuffs on the pants left on the bed.
The postman left a package, Jenna sent the jacket
to try and get some feedback, so I unwrap the packet.
And type up notes to send her, she works hard at her art
I can’t just leave her hanging, so I finish what I start.

Now, back to work, chasing the muse, she waits downstairs for me.
On my way down, I take the wash, my arms just can’t stay free.
I sort the clothes, the machine churns, the suds are getting clean
the clothing, but the towels, too, need their turn in the machine.
Upstairs I go and fetch the towels and throw rugs while I’m there,
Bring them down and pile them up, and now, it’s my time’s share.

I pull the stool, and flare the sheet of handmade paper crisp
I sigh with pleasure at the feel, but sniff a smoky wisp.
The brownies I’ve been timing for my spouse while he’s out shopping
are burning in the oven, timer’s ring too soft to get me hopping.
Quick, before he comes back home, whip up another batch,
The ones I burned were walnut, these are plain,  but will he catch
this slip? Maybe not, but I want time, the clock says almost four
I slide downstairs and just ignore the crumbs left on the floor.

You know the rest, you’ve been there too, I never find the muse
The truth is: those distractions are things I, distracted, choose.
Because my art is silent, its voice echoes from mine
And it won’t speak until I stand,  claim my voice and  my own time.

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(c) Quinn McDonald, 2007, all rights reserved. No copies unless you ask. Quinn is an artist and writer, certified creativity coach and cat owner. See her work at QuinnCreative.com