On Water and Writing

Sometimes I come to this place and my fingers fairly drip with words.  Large, fat, round droplets splash on keyboard and words stream into white space. Exhilarated and flush with creativity, every aspect of bending water to my will is a delight.

Conversely, I've known word droughts where cracked fingers come to this vessel, head tipped back, I open my mouth praying for just one drop to be released from the depths and I swear I will be satisfied.  Denied, my fingers stumble, hesitate, and have little endurance.

Yes, the two conditions sometimes co-mingle, but one typically has the upper hand - either one, at any given opportunity, and I'm left to wonder, what makes it so?

Although still new to this, I suspect I've poured out enough to with some legitimacy state that the water level has to do with time, time, time, and more time.  Dedicated effort yields a full cup.  Most times.

Sometimes time and effort is not enough.  What then?

Would behavioral psychologists suggest that I should just keep doing what I'm doing, fake it 'til I make it, repeat positive patterns until my parched throat is whetted with words and thirst is satisfied?  Perhaps.

Writers, would you tell me to find my muse, walk in Thoreau's woods, indulge in Hemingway's bottle, or work Berry's soil?

Any and all of those suggestions are valid, although not all will be profitable.

Nearly to the end of this querying, I think I see water and am drawn to the river's edge.

At times a rushing rolling rapid and other times a dry bed, I chart it's course for you, the reader.  Someday, I hope, my offspring will read with understanding and thanksgiving this legacy of supple fingers as well as cracked lips.  For now, you, with comments below, messages in my inbox, and a personal word deliver the quenching cup.

My thirst is slaked with encouragement, and you have been so kind to pour out.  And so, my fingertips move, tentatively at first, and by the end right slicing through the water to write my thanks, a deep reservoir of gratitude.

Chronicling gifts - a ongoing joy:
-Weekend Farmer Husband's interview went well.  We are carefully negotiating through terms of employment and considering the impact to his entrepreneurial vision.
-A gift, anonymously given, that helps to bear our financial burden
-My father has been given "permission" for a two day sailing trip - nearly 100 days since his transplant.
-Early autumn fellowship of hayride, God's word on the trail, rope swing, hot dogs on a stick, and a roaring bonfire drawing community together.
-Hospitality, although I do sometimes grow weary of what it requires, is yielding encouragement for God's kingdom and we press on with our open home.
-Books, big thick nerdy ones, and other geeks like me who love a good read and who discuss how masterful words change our very souls.  Encouragement.
-Our library.  The children are as excited to go to the library each week as they are on Christmas morning.
-Word from my mother that she's pretty sure that when she goes to visit my brother and his family in NC that MI is "on the way home".  We anticipate her visit with great delight.
-A furnace that warms the mornings.
-Plentiful water for us and animals, and this thirsty writer.
-Sons gathering in master bedroom in evenings to read the Word with us, the last thing before slumber.
-Scholarships - more than one for first born daughter who relishes being a student.
-Continued physical well being.  Remarkable assurance that the hairs on our head are numbered. Matthew 10:29-31