Share this:

I am a writer who lost her muse. I am muse-less. In need of Muse.

I have spent the last several weeks looking forward to getting back to writing again. Writing for me, not writing for work — which I have been doing nonstop, to the point where it has sucked my life force away. On my blog, no one cares about whether I use Chicago style or not, or whether my comma usage is up to par, or whether I use words on the Naughty List [all of which appear in Webster's, for the record.]

So when I finally found time to write, I have…nothing to say? Not possible. Me, who cannot shut up, ever, has nothing to say? How is this possible?

I look at my list of Blogs I Heart for inspiration. Nothing. I think about the days and weeks of “bloggable moments” — I know I had them but I can’t remember what they were. Ugh. Uninspired.

And then it occurs to me that he most inspired person I know lately is my daughter. What inspired her?  A tragic house and barn fire that we witnessed last Saturday. What did she do with her inspiration? She wrote a poem.  She is all of 7 and her way of processing scary shit is POETRY.  Awesome.

For background, here’s what happened…

On Saturday night we were at our friends’ house a few towns over for dinner. Just before dinner, the guys look out the window and say — about the house across the street –  “ummmmmmm, that house is on FIRE!”  HUGE flames were everywhere — I call 911, we instruct the kids to stay inside with the dogs, and the 4 adults ran across the street to see what was going on…the barn was totally engulfed in flames and it was moving to the house, quickly. The owners weren’t home but the guy who rents the back apartment had just come back from dinner with his two pre-teen kids… the kids were hysterical; we took them back to my girlfriend’s house to calm down and watch Harry Potter with our kids.  We went back across the street to help move cars out of the driveway, get the dogs to safety, move propane tanks and other things that could explode, save a baby goat, etc.  I attempt to move a dump truck.  [Go ahead, take a moment and picture that...and yes, I was as clueless as you'd think a suburban kid from Long Island would be. But I moved the stick shift car without stalling out.] It was a big deal (the fire – not me driving stick shift) –  very scary and lasted about 4 hours. There were easily 10-15 fire trucks from all of the surrounding towns in the Mutual Aid District. No one was hurt…most of the animals made it out of the house and barn  — they lost 2 goats but the cows, 2 dogs, and 1 baby goat made it. Half the house was saved but the barn and the back half of the house — including the poor renter’s apartment — were lost.

I’ve never seen anything like it — it was surreal, movie-like. The kids were fantastic and they are all processing through it in their own ways.  Katie had trouble sleeping that night and came into our room for the rest of the night, which she hardly ever does anymore.  The next night she had a nightmare but she says she can’t remember what it was about.

Her class has been doing a poetry unit since last week. I picked her up from school on Monday and she told me she wrote a new poem. She recited it for me in the car.

Fire

Blazing hot fire
Burning up my barn.
Run away, run away.
Burning up my house.
Run to the neighbors
Until it’s all out.

She made up new poems off the cuff all the way home, about the most random of objects — whatever we drove past on the way home, she was Miss Slam Poet of the Century. Trucks and Ducks (yeah, I was concerned for a minute for where that one was headed;) icy lakes and glittery rocks; barns; puppies…they just flew out of her, effortlessly.

I guess you find inspiration in the simplest of places.