Flow is a difficult thing to explain to people, especially people that either don’t have it or don’t believe in it. It’s hard to make clear just how powerful it is (whatever it is) and how much it can shape, facilitate, or impede an evening or a year, a project or a major life triumph of some kind.
For this reason it’s doubly hard to explain to someone how and why and what it means that they’re getting in the way of yours, killin’ the feelin’, taking your flows-like-water and turning it into splashes-like-puddle. Little things of apparently little import are often the difference between flow and none, someone saying something in one way and not another, asking for this favor rather than that one.
Usually I don’t begrudge anyone anything. I am always willing to sacrifice for the greater good. Well, usually willing. Tonight I would really like to have kept my flow. It was carrying me, carrying me fine, carrying me necessarily. It had carried me most of the day. And then for the last several hours, everything I start to do is redirected by others—innocently and just a little; the intentions that I haven’t yet expressed are diverted when I am needed elsewhere—innocently and just a little.
And just like that, the flow that has been carrying me instead leaves me behind. The problem, of course, is that without the flow to carry me just now, without having flow, I am stuck, dead, in the water. I am out of energy, radically.