My sore throat has persisted for days. This morning I woke up to it feeling a little more raw, a little past the point of annoying. So I started thinking about it in more literal terms. What does it mean? My ability to express is being hindered. I’m physically manifesting frustration at not expressing fully and clearly or, in the case of some topics, at all.
So I slept in, popped some Airborne in a glass of water and drank the fizzy concoction. I showered, a simple act that somehow always makes me feel better. Then I brought The New York Times, a big cup of coffee and my portable chair with the cup holder on the arm to the waterfront and read to my heart’s content. There is something about reading others’ expression that helps my own spring forth when I’m blocked. There were op-ed pieces by Anne Rice and Richard Ford and, of course, Frank Rich to make me think, smile and wince. Every section, it seemed, had something that spoke to some part of me. The weather was a marvel. What joy.
And then came the writing. I wrote while a homemade marinara sauce simmered on my stove. I wrote after I ate. I’m still writing. I will be for hours. Expressing. Crafting. Releasing.