A while ago, I did a guided meditation to the Well of Wyrd, and part of the meditation was receiving a gift.
That gift was a wooden block, a cube of wood.
I mused over this for some time; various people made helpful suggestions and then I forgot about it.
Now I don’t have a terribly sophistocated subconscious. It tends to prefer the obvious, in case, being a bit thick at times, I might miss the message. I played word association with it and got nowhere.
So for the writer, what is the obvious association of the word, “Block”? Easy. Writer’s block.
I don’t deny I am blocked right now. Writing a blog is easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy; the odd stanza of poetry ripples out from time to time. But the real work, the racing narrative that fills my head and peoples my imagination with real living breathing sweating beings, has gone. I’m dead inside.
What I really cannot work out, now I understand what the gift actually is, is how on earth a block, a wretched Writer’s Block can be a gift at all. Unless my subconscious is playing games too clever for me(Gift being German for poison, but German being my fourth or fifth language) I simply can’t see how this could be seen to be a gift at all.
Unless the universe or God or whatever is actually a sadistic entity with a rather sick, slick sense of humour, that is.
If I were feeling a tad more chipper, I’d think of a positive metaphor, something about whipping out my Exacto-knife and whittling that block into something more useful. But both a decent metaphor and the enthusiasm to use it are eluding me right now.
So the closest I can think of is to regard that hopeless lump of wood as a doorstop, to wedge open some metaphysical door a little so I can maybe come back and peer through when I’m ready. I’m only hoping the door doesn’t magically become tiny in the meantime. I look enough like an antiquated Alice to worry about that and avoid giant caterpillars smoking dodgy substances. Right now, any caterpillars ought to guard their hookahs with great care….