Gestation

This idea of just doing what I am doing…writing every morning…and just doing that…with the faith that there is a purpose…something will happen…what is it that I want to happen…I want to be noticed…I want my writing to be liked…to be shared…to move others…but there’s something else going on…something too difficult for me to put into words…it feels like something’s gestating inside of me…maybe that’s it…maybe that’s what I am doing…but, what’s inside of me…whatever it is…does it have to be something liked by others…does it have to be something big…something physical…something that can be touched and pointed at…does it have to be something specific, timely and measurable…do I have to be able to give an answer to the question “what am I doing”…right away whenever it is asked…does what I’m doing have to be enslaved by the person that I am right now…in this moment…with his understanding of what it is that I’m doing…here’s what I think I’m doing…I am unfolding…unlearning….returning…when I was a kid, my friends and I would run the neighborhood from dawn till dusk…we were free…on our own…each family had their own way of calling each of us home…my stepfather would open the backdoor…step out onto the back porch…put his thumb and index finger into his mouth…give a loud sharp whistle followed by a booming harsh holler of “Shawn!!”…my name would echo throughout the neighborhood…whatever I was doing…I’d stop…I’d come running…running home…I think that’s what’s going on…I’m heeding some kind of call of return…what if I just keep going…trust the process…what if what’s gestating inside of me is me…can the answer be just me…

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Thanks. – shawn