Experiencing Writer Incontinence

  Yesterday morning started with shopping at the downtown Phoenix Farmer’s Market. Individual tables with tented fabric overhead are set around a funky coffee shop that serves farm fresh breakfast and sells few grocery items that are regionally unique.

I begin at the Pichuberry booth, my favorite fruit, now for a few years. The table has a clear clam shell container with samples, so I peel back a thin skin, hold the bottom bud and pop the bright yellow-orange firm fruit into my mouth. My Saturday morning ritual has begun.

The next table is by Grindz, a local Scottsdale company that specializes in raw chocolate. I buy their raw zesty lemon bars for my upcoming week’s breakfast. Onto produce tents where I nosh a few samples — this week’s special is melon — honeydew, watermelon, and something yellow I don’t recognize but love, then I pick up my grass fed eggs. I walk by the street musician who is playing an electric guitar singing original songs. I can’t help myself, I have a smile plastered on my face as I head toward my car.

Kid you not, half way home I get writing incontinence (a term my comic friend Heather came up with). Words, sentences, paragraphs, and entire chapters are coming down into my mind and through it splashing everywhere. Just as if I had to pee real bad and crossing my legs to avoid dripping, I am doing everything to try and contain this word brilliance wanting to emerge from me NOW and onto the page. I couldn’t get out of the car and into my home fast enough to capture this torrent of insights. I attribute this opening to surrendering more and controlling less. I am reminded that the more interior spaciousness I give myself, the greater energy pours through me. Space and energy.

Happy Sunday Friends,