The Inner Writer Cries Again

The Inner Writer’s Cry

I stare blankly forward pondering where time has gone and what I have done with it, harboring an endless list of noble answers to that inquiry, yet still my dreams, goals, and aspirations go unaccomplished. A somber, depressing reality swirls about me as I acknowledge the impotence of my plight. I know my day’s works are of necessity going about mothering morning to night, yet feel lost adrift a sea of undone chores, swept away in the tides from one mishap to the next. Each day a link in the chain of others like it, killing time to arrive safely in the next, all the while praying for bedtime as a mad dash set around pressed toward meals fed, baths bathed, teeth brushed, covers tucked, stories told, songs sung, prayers said. An endless supply of time sensitive matters, minor emergencies, appointments, and catastrophes lie in wait to sabotage what ever to-do-list I make, poised to push each item down a notch.

In the end I stand weighing in the balance that which I have done and that which I desire to do feeling naught. Though ever aware how crucial my presence is, I fear it ineffective. I lay wondering, contemplating my failures regarding the why. My mind flutters helplessly amidst notions of powerlessness and ignorance as the blame. I fail for lack of knowledge as to how one succeeds, surely, I say. Yet I flirt with the doubt of myself or that of my fruit. Stronger still is this small voice within rebolstering my self worth, that of my labor, and the wish to see it not in vain. Yet I struggles against those duties charged of me for which I am liable, and the cycle repeats.

I see others fruit and envy, doubting its comparison. Knowing my own fruit to be of nourishment. Oh, to have my vineyard discovered! My crops wither as my vegetation goes unharvested. Among some vineyards fruit I feel inferior, yet oddly inspired to tend my crop. And in the season, such as this, stray blossoms bloom as my spirit yearns to see glimpses of that once full garden growing.

I pray no misinterpretation. My motherly me well contented, watching miracles in time stand still. Tis another facet of me who aches for moments basked in glory of triumphs great and small. My mother nature reaps grand reward of simple milestones, my inner author desires no less. The greater by far my parental charge indeed yet my writers voice will not be long silenced. It lay dormant for moments consumed by greater cause, then in pondered moments beckons, quietly at first. Then in still, quiet hours, though few, chants… Remember Me.

And so hear I sit answering the plea as chaos reigns around me, resisting the urge to pledge to the beckoning voice a pursuit of success for fear of promises broken. A silent prayer that fate somehow secures such destiny arises from my soul.

Sharon H. Clark
9/29/08