Sometimes it seems like the creatures in my head are unraveling stories, like Penelope who stitched by day and unwove by night to ward off obnoxious suitors anxious for Odysseus’ treasures–both in his bank and in his bed.
But the threads fray when I’m frantic to shove them all through the eye of the needle of sanity. I want to make order out of chaos, but the memories and the pictures and the stories waiting to be told are like bolts of lightning–powerful, visible, yet impossible to clutch.
I think this happens most when I’m creatively procrastinating embarking on what will be an emotional archeological dig. The feelings are buried alive, and I’ve been content to ignore them. Hoping, praying that logic will suffocate them. But, no. They demand to be noticed. And while I create chaos, thinking I will somehow murder them with inattention, they wait patiently.
And what do I fear? Having to bear the weigh of regret, pain, loss? Even too much sunshine burns and blinds.
But I know I must continue to stitch the stories together, to resist the untangling of the threads, and to listen to the whisper in my soul.