not writing

I want to write more than anything else that I can imagine doing right now. My son has been paralyzed by a piece of shrapnel from an IED. My family has been through the hell and horror of the surgical ICU, our lives wrenched off the paths we had set ourselves on. We have felt the peace of God that truly does pass all understanding. We have seen loved ones and strangers reach out to us with loves so in unison, they must grow from a common foundation most humans are built upon.

For the last two months I have taken notes, brief snippets of thought, attempting to hold on to some of the feelings and events that have redefined my life. And still, the torrent of words and feelings that I expected to wash out of me and over me hasn't materialized. My fingers think they should be spasming across the keys, rushing to keep up with the ideas blazing from my mind in a firestorm of emotion.

Instead, my mind stalls at the keyboard. Tepid non-thoughts lay on my mind, like a folded flannel sheet sitting on a bench in an unoccupied sunlit room in mid-September. Left there for now, that last bit of laundry. The person folding the clothes was called away, unhurriedly. Soft folded edges and a slight weight. No force. No flow. No intent.

I will try to write. Do I will it, or will I find that it happens to me like a seizure? Do I wait? Do I have a choice? I want to write.