Well. Had I needed any confirmation that the best way to deal with my internal demons is to out-stubborn them, this month has already provided proof aplenty. Last month, they kept insisting with increasing vehemence that I had little new to say, and none of it of interest, pertinence, or value to the masses, and that I had thus wasted far too much time faffing around with poetry/blogging/fic, and that I had better heed the multiple hints I've been receiving from the universe to focus harder on calligraphy, administration, volunteer work, hitting high Fs, finally getting a handle on French prepositions, and being a better friend to the people with whom I'm already friends.

And all those things do deserve more attention from me, but it's also been a relief to feel the old mojo blast out of the bottle it had somehow got sequestered in. I've drafted four new poems since Wednesday night (three for PAD, and the fourth to be mailed to Cat Bright, who won a custom-poem-per-month-for-a-year deal I'd offered at an auction last year).

Yesterday's PAD poem was "An Asian American" (yes, lame title -- these are day-of drafts), and today's is "The Trouble With Easter" (another title I will ditch when I revise for re-publication), the latter with a heap of commentary, because I am admittedly a bit giddy at the moment -- it feels good to feel once again that rush of making something and knowing right away that it is good.

When the mojo isn't in the house, I have to make a point of telling myself things like, "Showing up is good enough for now, now move on already," "Stop worrying about perfection and just meet the damn deadline," and "No one expects this of you except you, so get over yourself already," and to remind myself that if I never manage to write anything good ever again, there will still be flowering trees to admire and dogs to pet and friends to encourage and music to learn and dishes to wash, and that any one of these alone is reason enough to thank God for good fortune and gifts unearned. Even the dishes: the pleasure of owning dishes, some of them hand-me-downs from family and gifts from friends; of living in an era where I can take running water and liquid detergent and inexpensive scrubbing implements for granted; of being healthy enough that hauling dishes up to our one working sink and washing them is no big deal; of being able to anticipate more meals on those dishes, because of sufficient financial and social resources at my disposal. I know all this -- that every blessing in my life speaks of multiple blessings -- and yet I frequently have to shove my psyche through this, step by infinitesimal stumble-step, because it hasn't managed to escape its habit of veering into "ALL IS DOOM AND WOE AND FUTILITY AND WHAT'S THE POINT OF ANYTHING" at the slightest manifestation of my limitations -- which, you know, is the sort of thing that crops up at least twenty times a day.

Whereas, when I'm most myself, I feel like caroling, Yes! Go me! Practice does eventually pay! -- and my limitations are not track-blocking boulders but mere pebbles to be hopscotched over, and I know I'm meant to be working on the projects I'm working on, because my jill-of-many-tradiness makes me extraordinarily well-suited to script w, sing x, edit y, and compile z, and I'm lucky to have plenty of people in my life who agree with this (sometimes even when my psyche does not). (And, as I owe some of you lovely people notes or other makings, I'm off to retrieve the dog and proceed with the rest of my day, after which I'll spend some time with pen and postcards...)

Note to self: this is especially for you to reread the next time you're on the verge of a Show-Stopping Sulk of Doom.