Whispers

Whispers of self-doubt can quickly set about our dreams and aspirations. Hushed voices, thick-set with self-deprecation. Whispers that in my experience, left unchecked, fast become deafening roars.

Nothing speaks louder to my self-doubt then when I draw a blank.

When my mind (often so a whir with sentences and turns of phrase, that all I want to do is sit and write) echoes with the sound of inspiration closing the door on its way out.

No matter how hard I stare at the screen or the pen in my hand, inspiration flits away,  a few laughing steps ahead.

And I doubt.

Possibly, however, I should embrace the stillness where the storm of a story so recently took residence.

Allow the muscles of story-telling and talking to stretch out languidly, lazily skimming their words across my consciousness, without any pressure to provide.

Perhaps I should indeed sit quietly for a while. Note that my body and mind is asking for silence and not over-rule it for fear of an un-adhered to blog schedule.

If I permit the silence, then I shan’t be able to hear the whispers of self-doubt…

…instead, perchance, the footsteps of inspiration, tip-toeing back into the room.

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6 thoughts on “Whispers

  1. You’re blog writings entice me to write; your words flow like Arian Harps through trees of Alpine mountains of Italian and Swiss Alps. Like hearing loss, the slow decline of it, as is my own dwindling. So was the snow packs high mountains. If they stir one’s heart to weeping, like first loser of heart they shall dearly be missed. I am taking in as much of my dear wife’s voice and little sons conversing and giggle as I can. Losing something which I have always taken for granted. SO sense fist visiting your blog and reading of it, of your easy, deeply soulful and gently impacting poetic writes. It has inspired me to recall my most cherished moments of entices sensory.

    The brushing of a delicate and fragment rose peddle upon my lips, the time I shared kisses with the most beautiful and life filled women, sharing dark French chocolate upon our playful naughty tongues, a kiss so incense and hours lasting, they had no shame. And of sounds, like bird songs, we would always take the same drive to town, and at this one point along the way as we stopped, I would her this familiar Red Winged Black bird sing. And I would return the exact mimicked whistled song. Upon every time we stopped there, the little bird with whistle out as it noticed the baby blue color and round shape of out VW bug. One day, my wife said, oh look out the window, behind us. It was this little red winged black bird following up, rising and gliding in upward and acres and singing its little heart out.

    A true friend indeed and I had another awesome bird experience, High in the American Selkirk Mountains, of Northern Idaho’s northern panhandle. A summer’s day, as I and my Mountain climbing partner were Ridge walking along the bare rock spine of majestic mountains. As I stood upon the top of the world, out of my peripheral vision at thousands of feet up, the sky, out from the vivid blue atmosphere can a tiny sparrow in that familiar rise and fall arcing the blue, and she flew right past my nose tip, as she turned her face to mine and our eyes met. Then on out and she was way up in the sky once again.

    These are the most cherished memories of senses.
    There is one more sensory experience I wish to share with you if I may, the hush of snow, it is when you step out of the warm house in the mist of winter time at fist dawns light, the entire country side is blanked in pure white pristine snow, the kind of seen to your eyes where soon at sun rise glistening ice cycles upon froze bare tree branches shine in immense winkling. Per sun rise as the moments dawn grow brighter, the sound of vast pure white snow, is breath taking to those whom pause to experience it, absolute hush… is a moment of where you realize the beauty of life and living. As having lived in a world of both Light and noise pollution for one year shy of six decades. These are the moments of cherished timeless memories.

    I partially def with declining hearing, and I have lived in varying degrees of physical body and ear pain now daily since an industrial work accident and the over enjoyment of Rock – and Roll music. I still listen to music daily, but the tones and sounds have shifted like a slow decade’s lone Doppler Effect. Where French Canadian singer Celine Deon now sounds like Beautiful Adele. ‘Singing Someone Like You’. You cannot hear her voice, but your heart does feel her emotions, her longs are filled and she lives what she feels and I this def or sighted, mute, we are all full of life. Your writings so inspire the hearts and emotions of your fellow readers.

    I encourage you to taste of the saline sea upon your soft lips, and gaze at the most vivid blue skies, know from me that standing atop of mountains the sky is the air is thinner, thus far more vivid blue. And not all birds can hear or sing, but they live their other senses with great emotions of heart. Thank you. And if you do not mind, I would like to follow you writings. I believe you have so much of your life to write of creative expression in your writings.

    Liked by 1 person

      • Thank you Rosie…

        ‘In Deafness what is experienced, is the vast ‘Hush’ of pristine white snow blanketing the countryside, as well of the mountain valleys. The earth reminds us in our heart’s leaping to life, in viewing this vast wonderland that we are truly alive… so says the welling of our beautiful eyes… the sea the sea reminds us as well enticing our hearts, so says the taste of sweat ocean saline delicately frosting upon our soft lips. And the rose, fragrant and so very soft its beautiful peddle touched upon our lips which are softer?; brings our hearts to beating, palpation as in the throes of Love… there upon the mountain side, there is an ancient gnarled tree one of many hundreds of years of many thousands of decades standing of smoothed gnarled twisted weathered wood, testifying as it points to the vivid blue heavens above. And again do we not live to our hearts leaping and gasps of breaths and again… wells our eyes in the beauty of the living…’

        Rose is the middle name I gave to our youngest daughter when she was born in 1981, and many decades ago, I fell in love with a beautiful young Scottish girl from the Shetland, Islands, and states. her name was also Rose. Her voice was truly sexy deep, and she was so beautiful with reddish blond hair, the sort of awesome woman and soul and man falls deep over. 🙂

        Liked by 1 person

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