Writer’s Block

It is a bain, I neer had to worry about in my younger more prolific days of writing. Wonder if this is why I never had to create a practice of writing if you will. Now as I am not so young in my writing it comes in fits and gurgles. Which can be a bit tough when trying to bring focus during a time of discombobulation like we currently exist in. As we exist in or on the precipice of a fourth wave in Alberta (as we wind down tracking cases, one has to wonder where exactly we are). As health authorities continue to state at us puzzling, with our return to “flu” language, or we need to move resources to the opioid epidemic or syphillis’ outbreaks (because of course, we cannot do what our system should be able to do and respond appropriately) we continue to play roulette with who shall live and die.

Much as one existing in the disability community, regardless of age, does as we role back supports and make life harder for them and caregivers, all under the fallacy of belt tightening.

I sit, in an aging home, looking out at the landscape, one that is drastically shifting to a province I do not recognize.

Simply wonder, do I still belong? or is it time to move on? But if it is time to move on, where to even begin?

These are the thoughts rolling, along with concern for loved ones, disconnect with others who may be fearful of where some family member’s health is, and simply the ableism and prejudice revealed in others during this time.

Coupled with the simple exhaustion of a re-open non-plan, where many expect we will simply step our of our homes, and to step back in as the cogs of the machine as if nothing has happened over the last almost 19 months.

And then I no longer wonder, why I struggle, to write…to create… rather, some days, I need to stretch into soul care, if only not so exhausted.

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