This slight, steady, clinging unrest in me I permit not. Sad, it’s here, I can’t help it. Why? I haven’t written a thing in days/weeks (Feels like ages to me). Guess I’m experiencing a writer’s block. *smiles* was I ever one? I seem to have broken the precious cord that tied me to inspiration: a word, phrase, color shade, single gesture, thought, verse of the scripture, line of a song; would create a picture before me, resulting in pages painted with my writer’s ink, or shaded with my artist’s pencil. But, I feel no such gale, no ignition, not a spark; everything seems perfectly normal, unusually quiet. My mind (glad it isn’t my soul) feels numb.
I am unperturbed; rather pacified. My prime Source of inspiration puts me to rest. I willingly refrain stretching forth my hand over the Red sea; else there would be no divide. I’d rather have patience and wait till He bids me stretch! Then would I stretch without restriction and watch, with glee, the Red Sea divide and ask my Israelites to walk through on dry land.
Waiting… till He sets me off. For once He does, there’d be no holding back. Patiently stand I, watching and listening as Moses did at the mount of God, till I’d get a full rub off of Him and come forth glowing in words and pictures when He bids me go; the tables of stone stretched before me, the full grin on my firm face (such beautiful contrast).
“I broke my first tables of stone (misplaced my book for inspired thoughts). I’ll go seek another as did Moses at His command. I’m so sure I’ll get another like he, Moses did.”