I have a roast in the oven.  My first.   I also have ten blog posts started and abandoned since early February.  It’s a ridiculous feeling to have creative block/fear over a hobby.  I’ve been wanting to sit down and say something brilliant for weeks.  Which was my first problem.  And when it comes to being creative, it only takes a first problem to shut the whole thing down.

Jaron and I spent the second half of February traveling in California.  Our first visit to Jaron’s hometown in many years and it was breath-taking.  We found ourselves dreaming of being back on the west coast, near family and dear friends with whom we have years of history.  Near pine trees that overlook the Pacific from vine-covered cliffs.  Where the smell of salt and forest sublimely intermingle.  For us it smells like the place we fell in love.  From there we went to my hometown, did some of our favorite eating with some of our favorite people, and played three times in support of our record release.  After returning to Tennessee we turned around for Illinois and played again, the first time with a full band in almost six months.

With so much travel and so many events and conversations it should have been easy to sit down and journal.  So many wise words were said to me by the various mentors we were able to see, I should have had plenty to recount.  We received so much loving support surrounding our record release that I should have joy spilling over the pages.  But sometimes when I’m presented with beauty, and fun, and familiarity, I forget to receive it.  Instead, I turn to dreaming.  Dreaming of what I can do and where I can do it.  How I can capture the things I love and build them into my ideal life.  Trying to picture the path to a small cabin by the ocean that’s great for entertaining lots of people, in a beautiful mountaintop valley in the city.  If you will.

So it may come as no surprise that sitting down to write after spending so much time scheming did not produce much.  A few disjointed thoughts, a couple preachy paragraphs on subjects I don’t care much about, and a complete lack of vulnerability or connectedness.  Which is always the result when I over-indulge daydreams.  I make so much mental investment in the destination that I have nothing to say about the journey.

So here I am waiting for a roast, watching a movie about a columnist, and writing about writing, which I despise almost as much as songs about songs.

And I only have a roast in the oven because my CSA delivered it and I didn’t have the heart to slice it up for a stew.  Which I suppose is the same reason that I write.  Not because I have an idea, but because I get one.  Not because I have anything at all, but because of the need to do something with what I’ve been given.