The Forceps of Our Minds

I came today with the intention of writing something. But the page stared blankly back at me. Lately I have read such wonderful books, writing that inspires a person to do and be more, but simultaneously mocks my own ability or hope to emulate the author's achievements. Every time I sit with the intention of penning my own poignant words, my arthritic mind strecthes fitfully, snapping and cracking, then turns its back to ingnore me. A swirling of thoughts hovers like a cloud just above me; now and then I see pieces of characters or musings desiring freedom, to be let loose, but they escape, turning back into the cloud before I can grab ahold.

Suddenly everything I want to say becomes secondhand or trite, repeated a myriad of times before by the masses, lacking any semblance of creativity. No new thoughts exist in my mind and I feel like an old retiree, confined to a rest home, rocking slowly on the porch, rubbing cold, veined hands, and repeating the same decrepit story to those who no longer listen.

"Oh, poor girl," you may cry. "Self-esteem issues." Not at all. Because at other times, I lean back as I narcissistically admire the beauty of my own artwork, pictures painted with words. Reality is a strange thing. It is not set securely in the ground, deeply rooted and steadfast, but swayed by the ever-shifting sands of our perceptions, affected by infinite factors caught up in a single day. At one time, I am complimented and praised; here I become self-assured and confident. I am capable of exactly that to which I aspire. But then I am criticized harshly or, worse yet, ingnored altogether. Now the strong northern winds blow furiously, bending my thoughts toward my flaws and detriments writhing slowly beneath a papyrus-thin smile.

I read a quote today by H. G. Wells, one that inspired such thoughts and some undirected need to pen them. He trenchantly noted, "The forceps of our minds are clumsy forceps, and crush the truth a little in taking hold of it." I like this, both for its darkness and its accuracy. I often wonder in which ways my mind crushes the edges of reality, how shards of the truth fall noiselessly to the ground. I sense this when I am doing very well, buoyantly acknowledging my excellence and my endless capabilities. I sense it, too, when I am so very low, burdened by a weighty desolation that makes me want to eat copious amounts of chocolate, then retire to bed early.

In either state, I am infinitely thankful for all those things in my life that keep me grounded, guiding a shaky hand that gingerly handless the friable truth. I am thankful for my parents, both of whom encourage me more deeply than I could express. I am thankful for my friends, for their presence, for their loyalty. I am thankful for the gifts that authors have given, sharing their ideas, stretching toward what is greater while delving into the deepest recesses of humanity. I am thankful for nature and music, both of which are so deeply spiritual to me and move the core of my being. And, naturally, I am always quite thankful for chocolate.