We have probably all wrung out a washcloth or a dish towel. We've squeezed and twisted, watched the water drip out, and hung the cloth to dry with a feeling of satisfaction. Right now, these days, I am the cloth. I feel completely wrung out.
The truth is, I have mostly done this to myself. Squeezed and twisted as much as I possibly could until there was not even a drop left of energy or time. And beyond that I've kept pushing, thinking optimistically that this state can't go on indefinitely; it will get easier; life will look brighter in the morning maybe, or on the weekend.
It feels like being swept underwater and crushed beneath the relentless tide of routine demands, with added weight crashing over you from extraordinary circumstances and current events, as you struggle to right yourself, to find direction and air.
Still, here at my desk, breath follows breath. I am here. There is work to do.
Writing holds a natural magic. In putting pen to paper, and even in typing letters on a screen, writing easily generates life and light. In particular, I have found that making a diary entry– this kind of confessional writing– tends to herald a change. A new chapter, maybe ten or twenty pages from here. The point is, once you form your woes into words, they lose some of their power.