Just recently I had Covid (for the second time, I might add) and it landed me in my bed, in a slump, with that most dreaded feeling of uselessness that we all succumb to whenever our bodies are invaded by an enfeebling illness that's beyond our control.
I had things to be getting on with! I had people counting on me!
I had submission deadlines to meet! I had teenage daughters to care for!
I had writing to do!
My body was having none of it. My head was pounding so hard I couldn't read a thing, let alone write a thing. I could barely focus upon the finer points of the Great British Bake Off, as I struggled against the overwhelming fatigue that repeatedly pulled my eyelids down like nightshades and sent me free-falling into colourfully vivid, nonsensical fever-dreams which I still cannot unravel.
I eventually had to accept my defeat - turn off the laptop and put my journal to one side.
It felt utterly wrong to step away from my writing, just as it must feel alien to a gymnast when they are forced to rest an injured muscle, or unnerve an ardent actor when laryngitis claims their voice.
I believe in the wisdom of daily writing, even if it's only Morning Pages written as a mind-dump. It is a habitual meditation that keeps the mind cleansed and oiled and sends the bubbles of inspiration up from the depths of our unconscious minds, so that we might bring them forth as poems, stories, and visions.
And yet, I was unable to keep going... I had to lay my pen down.
A week and a half later, the fog began to clear, and I tentatively reached for my journal.
The ink that flowed from my pen that morning was astounding. I had a cramp in my wrist and a dent on my finger by the time that I stood to get some water.
Pages and pages - endless lines of fodder, the likes of which I hadn't seen in years, had powerfully burst from inside me like a rush of stars to a swiftly knocked head. So much material to plunder and harvest. Worthy ideas for stories, lines of poetry like exquisite artforms arranged to perfection across a spot-lit stage. It was truly a wonderful thing to behold - a sort of eureka moment for a writer that only visits on occasion and can never be anticipated or pre-arranged.
There was a wisdom in my body, in my mind, when it had chosen to shut down.
The reboot button had been pressed... new software had been loaded... and I was up and running with more acuity and efficiency than I had been before.
We cannot succumb to every sniffle, ache, or fear. We cannot allow ourselves to grow too idle, leaving our journals to gather layers of dust as we claim some mystical need for a cleanse.
But sometimes, our minds and bodies truly need a break.
Sometimes, we can walk even further if we just know when to rest.
Perhaps we will only know which is which when we find we are not offered a choice in the matter - when we simply cannot go another mile and the body straight up tells us, 'Stop!'
And in those frightening moments, when we fear we may have lost ourselves completely, our unconscious minds are still recording - still listening and observing - and the words that will come after will truly be something most wonderful to read!