Writer's Block

  How bizarre is it that I am sitting in a McDonalds (for the free wifi... and a few fries) with my laptop open, waiting for my 16 year-old son to finish his conditioning for the spring lacrosse season, and I am suffering from writers block?

   I know, I know...writers block is neither bizarre nor rare.  And yet, for me, it kinda is.  I typically thrive on the the thrill of a "writing date" when I often experience great relief as my words are allowed and encouraged to tumble out nearly as quick as my unconscious stream of thought.  Not so much this time.
   This flow of ideas used to fall into place quite naturally.  These days it happens briefly, as my head hits the pillow.  The comforting dark envelops and coos to my tired thoughts, coaxing my mind to

connect with the rest of me.  Over the years I have come to appreciate mindfulness and that hushed serenity that swaddles me while the rest of the house which has nestled in for the night cradles my true loves in their beds.  My senses are lulled into an easy going repertoire as a quiet joy, similar to old friends meeting, settles over me.  That is the time when the day, which will never be again, makes peace with my body and spirit, which have just carried me safely through its' past 24 hours.

   Yet, here I am, engulfed in classic rock that pumps from this get-away's surround sound mashed with chatter that blends a foreign tongue and a familiar language forcefully voiced by a child pleading to his parents to take him to the bathroom.  A steadfast middle-aged female employee winds her way through the colorful ensemble, faithfully attending to her duties of wiping down tables.  I am grateful for the cleanliness.  This particular location neighbors a nearby motel casting it's bright light toward the thruway and several gas stations.  It is a veritable way-lay for the travelers seeking a pit-stop on their journey elsewhere this evening.  I hear a nasally voice asking a tired, "did you get that coffee yet?,"  to which her colleague responds with a lackluster "yeah, it's in the cupholder."  The "Na na naaa, na naa, naaaa" from a band, unfamiliar to me, tries to infuse energy in the joint.  The guys, speaking a language I still can't place, spontaneously burst into laughter- which actually does lift the mood and make me smile.

 My grin lingers while a realization dawns...mindfulness itself has healed my writer's block.  The cloying scent of percolating caffeine, readied to assist travelers on their drive through the night, is so heavy it disrupts my reverie and brings me to my senses.  Time to go.  I gather my things and take a closer look around.  I am not the first to leave our temporary community, which shared the last 30 minutes of our lives. Most likely this was the only time our collective group will be together on earth.  This thought wakens the gratitude for always having something to be grateful for and serves as a reminder to sit up and take notice of who we share our journey with. We're on to a different tune now.  So let the drummer drum and the singer sing this very poignant song that plays as I depart:

Give A Little Bit 

Give a little bit
Give a little bit of your love to me                                      
Give a little bit
I'll give a little bit of my love to you
There's so much that we need to share
Send a smile and show you care
I'll give a little bit
I'll give a little bit of my life for you
So give a little bit
Give a little bit of your time to me
See the man with the lonely eyes
Take his hand, you'll be surprised
Give a little bit
Give a little bit of your love to me
I'll give a little bit of my life for you
Now's the time that we need to share
So find yourself, we're on our way back home
Going home
Don't you need to feel at home
Oh yeah, we gotta sing

Written by Richard Davies, Roger Hodgson • Copyright © Universal Music Publishing Group