I live, as I suspect most writers do, between the Siren and the Muse.

The Muse is present with me now. Strong in her encouragement, her ideas, and her suggestions.

Yet, just outside my studio door lurks the Siren. She is dressed in the colors of Facebook, television, or mindless reading. Perhaps disguised as a warm comfortable bed, calling out with her song enticing me with a lullaby.

I’m determined to sit here with the Muse just a little longer.

Now, the Muse arrives in the fascination of pen to paper. Not just any pen, mind you but a fountain pen and the fine cream paper of a new Moleskine. The words flow as as finely as the ink. Thoughts smearing forth onto the page. Even my non-artistic scrawls appear legendary.

Many days the Siren is named Procrastination. She also answers to the moniker “Excuse”. It is so much easier to hear her laud raucous beckoning than that quiet but persistent voice of the Muse.

Despite the protests of the Siren, the Muse is always present and ready to dictate if I will listen. She stands beside, me ready to whisper her wisdom. If I can lock the door on the Siren just long enough, the Muse will catch my attention.

I tilt my head, listening carefully, shutting out the frustration and regret of the Siren. I choose the Muse with her reward of creativity and prose.

Today I have chosen wisely. I hear you sweet Muse. Get behind me Siren.

A familiar platitude goes like this: “When God closes a door, He opens a window”.

Maybe.

But I believe it is more likely our humanness is seeking a simple explanation for a complicated event.

What if God didn’t close the door, but our own will and stubbornness slammed it shut in the Face of the Most Holy? What if God only pulled the door to, but didn’t latch it? Did He stand back, watching in horrified amazement as we frantically pawed at the walls, looking for the secret latch to open the magical window? The window of escape from our choices?

In our collective imagination, this room is dark, empty and devoid of sustenance. God locks us in to teach us a lesson.

What if the reality is God staying on the inside with us, hoping to spend a few precious uninterrupted, undistracted moments with us? His intent was not for us to immediately begin the search for an escape, but to sit humbly in His Presence until our soul thawed in His warmth.

How dare we pen God into our understanding. How arrogant to presume we know the Mind and Ways of Almighty Creator.

I pray to be humbled and teachable. Open to beyond doors and windows in my darkness.

Embracing the possibility of more than I can imagine. Allowing room for the creation of something my human brain did not conceive.

There is a lot of talk about physical spaces. 

Tiny homes are all the rage. Large opulent homes are used by those with means. A man (or woman)’s home is his/her castle. 

Writers swap stories about their writing environment. This one requires silence, that one soft music, yet another works in the cacophony of a coffee shop. 

We talk about our personal space. That three foot or so bubble around ourselves that we consider to be part of our being. An area that only welcomes a trusted one.

People frequently say they need space. Do they understand what they are asking for? I don’t think it is the physical space or environment or even to push people out of their three foot barrier.

It is emotional space. 

A time to think your own thoughts without interruption. Allowing your mind to wander across vast fields of knowledge. Bringing to the forefront those emotions and bits of information that need to be examined first in the safety of our own internal world. 

A place in our soul to step aside from outside concerns and be at home with ourselves. No pressure to be anything except our own true self. 

This emotional space is where my creative self explores my inner world. I make connections between random ideas and re-orient myself to the core of me. 

After a brief foray into this psychic space, I am ready to face the onslaught of the external again. 

Take time to explore your inner world.

In this world of hurt and suffering, darkness surrounds us. But there is hope. 

Hope comes in the form of a baby. Growing into a man with God flowing through his veins. God poured out himself on a lonely vulgar instrument of torture. The ultimate sacrifice for the sins of many. The sins of terrorists. The sins of murderers. Adulterers, thieves, liars and cheats. 

Me.

If only we will accept this substitute sacrifice. Look to the One who has the ability to save our soul. It is a matter of faith. 

Are you strong enough to accept that you are weak? That you can not do this on your own? There are no number of good deeds that can cleanse your soul. 

My sin. 

My soul.

My faith.

My Savior. 

“My name is Julia and I’m a procrastinator.”

“Hello Julia”

I hear the echoes of voices in my mind. All the procrastinators coming together and admitting their deep fault.

After my imaginary attendance at the Procrastinators Anonymous meeting, I head for another dose of reality.

“My name is Julia and I’m a perfectionist.”

“Hello Julia.”

Strangely the echoes are the same voices that just left the PA meeting. Everyone slogging together through the murky guilt to Perfectionists Anonymous.

It’s true. These two afflictions go hand in hand. Walking together down the road of “I meant to.” “I’ll get there someday.” “The time just isn’t right.”

But the reality is even our attendance at these Anonymous meetings delays the inevitable. It is our way of keeping busy and appearing to do something productive while really accomplishing nothing.

My favorite delay routine is binge and purge. It’s not what you think. Nothing to do with eating and trying to control my physical body environment to soothe my angst.

I pile, then organize.

To procrastinate, I pile. Dump the mail. Stack the incoming bills. Create a to-do list, then add it to the pile. Half-finished projects, started with perfect intentions.

When it is time to write, the environment must be perfect which requires organizing. Sort the pile. Make new stacks. Handle those things that should have been done last week. Now those bills are mission critical.

Oops. Writing time is gone.

Julia Miller also blogs at fivefelinefarm.com and occasionally at motherearthnews.com. When the piles are right, she’s also working on a book.

The new year comes whether I am ready or not.

Time marches second by second, marked by the clock on my wall. It ticks each moment gone by, not caring if I made good use of that blip of the second hand.

Like everyone, I have goals and dreams for the New Year.

But this year, I am not making resolutions.

I will take 2016 day by day. Working hard each day toward my dream. Toward my goal. Each day I will be closer than the day before to who I am to become.

The sweep of the clock hand is consistent. I pray to be that consistent.

March steady. March true.

March into the New.

How can writing transport me to freedom? 

Freedom is my destination. Writing is my mode of transportation. Ideas are the fuel.

Ideas ramble through my brain like so many birds landing at the feeders in the backyard. None land for long. A title, a topic. Both too broad to be realistic.

Narrow the focus. Set the pace. Write the words. 

Write for the sake of sharing ideas.

As the words of F. Scott Fitzggerald remind me from the frame on the wall, “You don’t write because you want to say something, you write because you have something to say.”

I have a stories to tell. Telling my stories will set me free.

The very existence of this post shows that I am moving toward my dreams and goals.

I am a writer.

There are so many things in my head that deserve to be in print. Instructions. Stories. Plans. Dreams.

I am on the right path. Keep taking the next step. Then the one after that and the one after that.

Eventually I will be down the road.

If you have stumbled upon this page, congratulations. You are an elite reader. One of the few who knows this page exists.

At least for now.

I’ll be building this blog as a landing space for all of my random thoughts and musings.

Watch out world.