What's blocking me and what is the way forward to finish the first draft of my book?
I climbed back into bed, partly because I was a touch hungover and partly because I was curious about intention. Is asking a question a way to open a door?
I stood on a bridge over a ravine cut by a river, reaching for a big yellow balloon. My son was on a train nearby, waiting for me. My fingers tugged at the string. The balloon was heavy and had a pull; that it floated and drifted seemed impossible. It snagged in one of the steel trestles and I yanked. The train began to move and I yelled, "Wait!" and all the passengers yelled, "Wait!" and the conductor slowed but started again toward the high bridge. I had to choose: the balloon or the train with my son.
I let go and ran. Hopped into the moving train. As it passed by the balloon, I heard people murmur -- was I going to try again and reach out for it? I smiled at the balloon, at its silly rounded shape lodged between pieces of steel, and looked forward.