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I have violated three Wednesdays in a row in the name of business. The first was a freelance pr piece, because I needed the money. The second was a make-up day with my regular client, because I needed the money. Last Wednesday started out with a round of essay submissions to various editors, and working on the new banner design for my non-fiction prose blog, Notes to Self.

I woke up this morning with a grim determination to Write Poems. Then I popped over to Keri's place on a recommendation from friend, and was reminded that it doesn't work that way. My poetself is sick and starving at the moment. You can count her rib bones. I could probably wring something out of her with the sweatshop approach, but she'd eventually collapse, escape or stage a mutiny.

Keri writes, "Oh, how we pressure ourselves...Who would you be if you stopped trying so hard? Contemplate that just for a moment. Sit with it if you dare. What if you didn't produce a thing for the next while? "

Reading this, I felt like tipping my head to one side. I was like the dog in the old Gary Larson cartoon, "What Dogs Hear". "Blah blah blah Ginger. Blah blah Ginger. Blah blah." I could recognize my name in it, but the rest was foreign. Not produce? Like, intentionally, without guilt?

It might take me a while.

In the meantime, Keri's mention of filling her house with the smells of curry and incense inspired me. That I can do. And, come to think of it, need to do.

I have been struggling these past few months, with ego, ambition, expectations and desire. I'm not done struggling. I am going to clutch those things a little longer, maybe until my palms bleed. I don't know yet how to release them. I have felt terrible about it, too, because I "should" know better. (Apparently, the same sweatshop boss who runs my creative life doubles as my spiritual director). I castigate myself for coming down with this soulsickness, when what I need to do is nurture myself while it runs its course.

I can't heal it. But I can be healed.

So today I am invoking the kitchen gods. The curry is simmering. I have baked almond cookies. Sunshine is streaming over the sink. In a moment I will set the table for two, and invite Patrick to take a lunch break with me.

Then I might go for a long, long walk, with Keri's suggestion folded up carefully in my heart like a note from a schoolmate written in secret code.