What the Heck Happened??

Writing stopped abruptly, like a summer storm.  The torrent of thoughts and inspiration pouring out of me, dried out without any trace.

What happened?  The silence inside my head is deafening.  There is nothing, but empty hollow space filled with vacuum.

It started with the desire to run away.  To get away from everything, from myself, to forget, to stop thinking. To run away from writing and the agony it's been causing, the sleepless nights, the self-doubt, the criticism, the constant nagging desire to persevere and succeed and publish. No matter what.  I guess that just killed everything else that comes from writing - the self-satisfaction, the quiet dialog with God, the reverence for precious words combined  into tentative poems.

I ran.  I couldn't stay home anymore, with myself, alone with my oppressive thoughts.  I went out.  I traveled.  I tasted wine.  I chatted with my friends.  I just wanted to stop processing, and start absorbing the world around me.  Without judgment, in a quiet meditative state.  Not think.  Just be.

But then, the thinking just stopped completely.  The new semester started again, and for the love of God, I still can't comprehend the resounding yes in me when I was offered to teach another class in Graduate School.  After having agonized about my role as a teacher and having finally decided that I don't want another teaching job, I had no doubts when I agreed to take on another one.

So the struggle to balance the teacher and the writer in me is continuing.  I still can't find myself between the two.  The tug of war between my two personalities is never ending.  Now I am a teacher, dedicating myself wholly to my three classes, giving up a piece of my Soul every single day to each of my students.  I tell myself to stop caring so much, and just do a job, but it's impossible.  I AM a teacher.  My life is a classroom.  I mother and mentor by default.

But I'm also a writer.  Somewhere deep inside me, she is cowering, unable to give herself voice, or yawning, tired and jaded from all the repetitiveness of life.

So I pray to the God of Writing, to please return my voice to me, to fill the dried up well with creativity, and defeat my fear.  I may not be good, and I may not ever publish, but I just want to write.