It’s been six weeks of loss, and I have felt emptied of inspiration as well. Life literally and figuratively draining out of me, slowly. With that, an uneasy feeling of irrelevancy, loss of time to make impact, invisibility. My life is half-over, and I want to make my impact on the world not as delicate footprints in the sand, but as forceful fiery volcanos made of Hawaiian-slow, deliberate lava.

I begin again, 15 minutes a day for 28 days. Back in the writing habit. Waiting for inspiration, for that intake of idea.

I won’t dwell much on the last month. I bled longer than most people. I called the doctor three times, only to hear I needed to wait.

I spent my life waiting. It’s time to erupt with deed.

And it’s time to stop trying to make my blog entries sound so Damned Important.

Afterall, I have a mosquito bite on my ass that is getting at least as much of my focus as my writing is at the moment.

I begin a new show this week as a fight choreographer. Once again I enter new territory. I have learned not to prepare too much before the first rehearsal beyond basic research. The original plan of “one fight” has turned into “four fights.” I will make it work. I will find time. I know better this time. It won’t hurt.

My boys’ birthday party is in a week.

I have yet to tell the story I need to tell.

It’s all coming.

But I need to scratch a different itch first.

Hasta manana, iguana.