There’s an inevitable disorientation that comes of grieving, a deep and soul sucking one. And I can think of nothing more effective at drying up the writer’s pen than a punishing bout of disorientation.
So, since November 8th, I’ve found I’ve pretty much lost my writing voice. With each passing day and document held aloft bearing that signature, I just grow quieter still.
I know this will pass, while that which drives it will leave its mark on the world, the country, and individual lives in ways we will soon see. To the extent that everything is interconnected, this will impact my family and I. And yet, the truth is, we can and will live pretty much above all of that. I doubt there will be a plutonium mine in place by the time we visit Machu Picchu this summer, imagine we will find that the Amazon will still be the enchanting, lush, snaking waterway it always has been. I can and indeed will lose myself in all of that.
I do look forward to my voice returning to its free and flowing state whenever that happens. For now, it is what it is, and offer my little prayers for us all.