Frozen Charlotte

One wonders why, sometimes, there is such a thing as writer's block, artist's lethargic indifference to art, the worker's wandering away from the work that she loves, dearly loves.  Could it be that there is a need to shut down sometimes and let the creative juices ebb back, regroup, mix anew with vibrant colors unimagined before?

I don't know, I just know that I have not been writing, not making jewelry, not even doing mundane day-to-day things that are silently screaming for my attention.  Yes, personal cares are indeed involved, but I don't know how much to blame them.  When I get this way, I call myself "Frozen Charlotte," after the little penny porcelain dolls that were one piece of porcelain; the arms and legs didn't move--hence, "frozen" in position.  I seem sometimes to be likewise frozen in an inability to move with creativity, move on to do the things that need doing.

Yet, the sun keeps on rising, kissing me and the yard into bloom: the century plant suddenly shot up a blooming shoot higher than the house, and I nearly missed noticing it was there.  The pink jasmine is filling the air with scented blooms and the citrus trees are too; spring comes, even when I am still frozen up. Each new shoot and blossom is an encouragement to me, a whisper of possibilities, new life, new hope, new beginnings.  Let it be so.