Sometimes I open the door to my mind to write and there’s nothing there. Depending on how I’m sitting (or what I’m hoping to do), this can feel like a blessing or a curse. As I was pondering what to write this week, all I could come up with was a poem by James Broughton.

THIS IS IT

This is It
and I am It
and You are It
and so is That
and He is It
and She is It
and It is It
and That is That

O it is This
and it is Thus
and it is Them
and it is Us
and it is Now
and Here It is
and Here We are
so This is It

Staring at the empty page, I ask my brain  “What can I write?” And my brain, acting like that awful boy Richard in 3rd grade who taunted me relentlessly about being smart, decides to mock me and says “Nothing.” Nothing to write. No ideas. Empty.

The power of nothing.

When I dive into nothing, I always find something, But when I insist on finding something, I may only come up with nothing,

So what now?

Ring a chime. Light a candle. Just sit. Feel the muscles of my butt in the chair. The tinnitus that rings in my ears. Allow the it to be it. Sip tea. And wait.

And the words will come, or they won’t.

And you will read and enjoy, or you won’t.

And life goes on either way.

This summer, I hope we all can enjoy more beloved It-ness.

And Here we are/so This is it.