tar baby – Jeanne Hewell-Chambers

Branches

even at the ripe old age of . .

ahem.
even now
i fall prey to
over thinking
every idea
that tickles
my heart.
over analyzing it.
“will they like it?”
i ask,
not even know who
“they” is.
(or is it “are?”)
(and does that
question mark go
inside the ” “
or out?)

i begin to
craft a paper
filled with
my ideas,
shared in words
that show my
intelligence,
with
well-thought-out
defenses
of every
criticism
sure to confront me.
and first thing you know,
i’m paralyzed,
my enthusiasm
grown cold,
if i can even
remember
what i was
so excited about
in the first place.

what i want
more than anything
is to pounce.
pounce,
i tell you
onto something
just because
it turned
the head of
my heart.
i want to
ride that interest
until
another one
comes along
and turns
my heart
in another direction.

i want to pounce
and follow
without
explanation,
without apology,
without defense.

so why don’t i
do this
simple thing?

“would people
pay for this?”
never fails to
knock my
legs out from
under me,
sending me back
to the want ads
where everything is
in black and white.
literally.

and then
before you know it,
another idea
appears
capturing my
attention,
curling its
finger at me
with undeniable
sexiness.
beckoning,
and it
starts all
over again.

it takes
a blog post from a
loving, wise friend,
supportive, understanding,
loving
text message exchanges
from another
trusted friend,
and

a phone call from a good,
patient,
wise
and loving friend
to toss me a
rope,
to pull me back
to solid ground,
hose me off,
and whisper
“pounce.”
“pounce.”
(because saying it once isn’t
nearly enough when i get like this.)

tonight
instead of
putting the lid
back on this box
of old, old junk
and shoving it
to the back of
the closet
again,
i invite it out,
invite it to take a
nice, comfy
spot on my altar
and
i listen.
with openness,
with love.