Blockage, re-routing, clearance

Did I ever tell you about the time I was on an AWP shuttle bus and a publicist’s assistant told me that my sacral chakra was blocked? We were chatting about reiki, so I’m clearly receptive to that kind of random conversational offering, but it’s pretty bold to diagnose a stranger. I instantly knew that I’d landed in a funny creative-writing-conference anecdote. What surprised me was that it also felt like a serious and sincere exchange: she was trying to be helpful, and for my part, I suspected she was onto something.

I don’t use the term “writer’s block” because I find it unhelpfully mystifying. There are tons of reasons to feel paralyzed at the keyboard: fear that you have nothing worthwhile to say; fear of certain audiences’ criticism; illness and exhaustion; and the sheer difficulty of articulating some material, for emotional or intellectual reasons. Blockage IS a perfectly good metaphor for those obstacles; I’ve certainly spent years of my life getting in my own way. But I have to diagnose the obstruction in a more specific way before I clear it. Plus, calling it a “block” implies complete stoppage, and I seem to spend my writing time discovering side roads. If I can’t write a poem, maybe writing a blog will show me what I’m bothered by. If I can’t bear to finish that article, could it be the wrong project? Do I need to re-route completely?

That shuttle bus conversation was years ago, but lately the universe keeps repeating the message. Last weekend, I started a series of acupuncture sessions and the acupuncturist basically told me my qi is blocked at the kidney meridian (or something like that). I’m experimenting by seeing a practitioner who had been strongly recommended to me, trying another strategy to reduce pain in my knees and feet, and she said it was all rooted in my gut–sacral-chakra-land. It ended up being a three-hour intake session of conversation, cupping, and needles, and lord knows whether it will help long-term, but it sure lit me up with curiosity and hope, if not the flow of qi. The experience whooshed me out of a down, irritated mood–post-acupuncture buzz calming but never quite disappearing–and had some other interesting physical effects, although it hasn’t much changed my pain levels yet.

I wrote here a couple of months ago about an astrological reading that predicted feeling stalled into September and then energy breaking loose, big transformations overhauling my life. It seems like a similar narrative. Whereas medical doctors tell me that middle age is the dawn of pain you can manage but never banish, alternative healers hold out the chance of real change, and of course I prefer the latter. It could just be wishful thinking. Then again, the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves are not trivial. As I pass my latest birthday and summer becomes fall, trying to believe in the clearing of obstacles feels like a reasonably healthy move.

I’m currently rereading a great poetry book partly about omens, centering the West Virginia harbinger cryptid Mothman. (The featured image for this post is artwork depicting him by Jacob Weber; see more at Smithsonian Folklife.) The author of Mothman Apologia, the local poet Robert Wood Lynn, will be reading here this Tuesday then visiting my workshop. I’m at that moment of the teaching term where momentum-building shifts to drafting, conferencing, and grading. That’s something I like about my job: work is always on the move. I’ve also just finished a revision to my novel and I’m closing in readiness to query agents. I have emails from Tupelo Press in my box, early planning stuff for Mycocosmic. Will my writing and teaching life be changing? Cue the suspenseful film score.

No other news here poetry-wise, except for a very kind Best of the Net nomination from MER for “Permit for Demolition” (hah! more omens of blockage-clearing). Otherwise, I have just one more funny-serious question: do any of you know the deal with the gin-soaked raisin cure for inflammation? I mean, I’ll try anything that’s not costly or dangerous, and it’s way more fun than popping NSAIDs, but how is it different than just eating raisins and drinking gin?

Mysteries.