It has become an evening ritual to watch the gecko scaling the back wall of my house, and then go inside and enjoy a steaming mug of tea. This week I am drinking Tazo “Calm” in the evenings, and reliving the relaxation that chamomile affords. Last week I bought a sketch book, not to sketch in, but to write poetry in, because poetry is too organic for the keyboard, and seems to flow better when scribbled in ink on textured paper. I’m at a point, with writing, where I’m scaling a vertical wall, but unlike my friend the gecko, I don’t have sticky feet and pointy claws to keep me secure while I move upward. It hurts to write, it hurts not to write, and yet, I’m terrified by things I’m stirring up from the depths of the cauldron of my mind – half memory and half imagination.
I wonder if it is really failure that terrifies me, or if it is actually success that I fear.