I don't have the answers yet, but I have learned enough to be dangerous, and ask better questions..

****Later edit - update after walking on the beach

You know,
when my muse calls, I have to go to her. I find if I resist, she tends
to escalate by waking me up at 3 AM and screaming at me to WRITE DAMN IT! This morning, she kicked my butt in bed and said, you gotta' get to the beach. NOW.

I did point out that it was, after all, pissing down with rain, and this is hardly beach walk weather.

But resistance is futile, and I felt her building up in fury, so to the beach I went.

By
the time I arrived, the clouds were still crowding the sky, brooding
over the ocean, but the rain had dwindled to the odd cold sprinkle.
Grumbling, I got out of the car and tripped down to the sand.

And
I am so glad I did. Once I stopped cursing that wretched muse, I
realized she was right. There was an experience here to be had, if I
would just let it happen.

The sea was roiling and broiling,
rather like my emotions. The wind whipped my hair around my face, and
my thoughts whipped through my brain, crowding into each other,
muscling for position.

I realized this outer chaos looked like the landscape (seascape?) painting for my inner chaos.

Where is my buddhist training here? Can I calmly observe the chaos of my soul
without going under? Can I find my inner calm?

The ocean reached its fingers for me, sending its foam round my ankles, whispering "come closer."

I
tossed my hair and backed up a step. This is as close as I'm coming
until you warm up, I answered haughtily. Normally, I eagerly follow the
lead of my little girl in shedding my clothes and immersing myself in
you, but I am not up for an ice bath this morning. Getting on the beach
in the cold drizzle is all the adventurousness I can muster right now.

A girl has her needs, you know.

Besides,
how many times do I have to wade in your foam, feeling you churn
yourself againt my waist, or my neck, before I finally get purged of all the
ghosts that haunt me? When do I get to be finished with this particular
therapy?

Gentle raindrops stung my face. Is this like love, do
you think? Gentle and stinging, together in the same space? The gentle caresses you tenderly, while the sting wakes you up and makes you say
whoah what's happening here?

Birds with long sharp beaks probed
the sand in eagerness. What secrets do you suppose they are digging up
there, just beneath the surface?

A fat gull watched me warily,
hoarding his breakfast, and flew off when I came too close. As though I
would want some sandy piece of dead crab.

No one said gulls were bright.

I felt the need to run.

You're not wearing the right bra, said my needling inner watchdog.

Piss off. I am not listening to you until you do something useful, like cough up some rent money.

I am running.

I
love the experience of running. I like the way my arms brush against my
waist, the way my hair hits my upper back, and the way my feet pound
themselves into the ground, demanding that the Earth acknowledge my
existence. I like the way my breath and my body get into rhythm. I like
the way my butt engages my legs.

And as I ran, beams of light broke through the clouds and shined on the sea, like a Dutch master's painting.

After
I ran, I walked a little, letting my breath catch up. My thoughts
didn't seem nearly as chaotic. My emotions stopped wrestling me to the
ground, and went off to have coffee or something.

I picked up a
smooth rock on the sand and put it between my palms. Is this what's
happening to me? Am I being eroded like this rock? Are my rough edges
and sharp angles being smoothed away and gently worn down until only
the core of me remains? Shall I one day be solid, smooth, moving ever
so slowly along with the ocean's flow until I reach the beach to rest
in sunlight with the other smooth rocks?

Is that life? Is this
what my muse wanted me to get this morning? Is it time for me to let
someone or something file down a sharp angle so a smooth surface
emerge?

I left the beach, the ocean still roiling and frothing
under a grey sky with hopeful blue patches here and there and went to
my car where I had to blow my nose for what seemed forever.

Please tell me this is toxic shit leaving my body, emotions purging through excretion. Please let me heal.

If this was the task, then I hope I fulfilled my part of it.

Thanks be to you, oh Great Muse. I promise not to resist your call so long next time.