Category: Life

Why? Why do I often think to write at this time of year? Why does it feel like I only write at tumultuous parts of life?

I think about writing all of the time. Constantly, actually. Except there is a narrative in my mind telling me that I haven’t anything to say.

Nothing worth reading, so nothing worth writing. That is a lie, though. My mind is not playing nice.

Writing is an art. With art, I get better the more I do it. If I don’t put time into this, how can I expect to gain confidence and consistency? Too though, I need a muse, inspiration if you will.

Maybe just something, however small, each day, and I’ll be able to get the flow back. I miss the rhythm of reading the words back to myself. I feel the need to fall in love again with this art form of mine that has helped me through every single transition in my life.

I’m in a rut. With writing, and with everyday life. I’ve gotten stuck in thinking that I am physically trapped here, home. And while it isn’t easy getting out, it’s possible. And the more I do that, the more inspiration I am bound to find!

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At It Again

Quiet would be one word to describe the last few months of my writing.

Isolated, fearful, and tired would be further descriptive. Of my words, and my soul.

While it can appear that writers are raw and open, honest at the risk of oversharing, I find that that I hide behind my written words. In this medium I have time as well as resources to finesse and edit each point. Filter it in a way that you see just what I want you to.

Extending that thought, I want you to like what you read. Dare I say I want you to love it. Love me. To write in that way when I feel nowhere near likeable, let alone loveable, is a boldface lie. And that, I can’t do.

I’ve shrunken down in size over these last several months. I’ve outsourced a lot of what I typically do. I’ve stopped doing anything extra. From the minute I wake up to the minute the boys heads hit their pillows I’m in survival mode. What can I do and what can I say in order to make the next moment go smoothly, and the next, and the next. Somedays I feel like I have done as best I could, others I am ashamed and disappointed in myself.

The thought of writing, at least writing anything real, has felt out of reach, overwhelming. This takes time, time I don’t have, or time I have chosen not to dedicate to this part of my life. I’ve recently thought though that this is the part that makes me feel more me. Without a doubt I need more of that.

So, hello old friends. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed the musical sound of the keyboard, the rhythm and flow of these words, the lightness that inevitably comes from putting it all together and setting it free.

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New Year 2021

Wow. This year. Just, wow.

I, like many of you, want this new year to bring a clean slate. Open the doors and let this stale air out to make way for a new, fresh, clean breeze. The thing is,  tomorrow we will wake up and face the same challenges we faced today. The difference will be the knowledge and insight we have gained.

With each tomorrow,  the promise of stuggle is there. It is all part of being human. But with the passing of yet another year, our strength to navigate that struggle has grown. We are now a whole year wiser, tougher, and more resilient than we ever were before.

This year will not be miraculously easier. But we are collectively better equipped to make it through. Maybe that is the magic of the New Year.

Happy New Year to you all. Each one of you, carry on, we’ve got this!

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Hope

Hope takes on many different forms.

It looks like waking up at 3am and staring up at the pre-dawn sky, waiting for just one shooting star to make its way into view.

It looks like hard day after hard day, but continuing to get up and show up because one day it will all work out.

It looks like days full of tantrums, running on empty, only to be saved in the nick of time by the biggest hugs from your littlest loves.

Hope can look like laughter and tears, spring buds and fallen leaves, new faces and old friends.

Hope looks like whatever it is that gives you enough strength to do it all over again, when just the night before it may have seemed to dark to find your way.

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Hands

Hands are for helping and holding.

We use them to touch, and they allow us to feel.

You learn a lot from a person’s hands. Are they calloused, or manicured? Is there a ring, or a tan line or indent where one used to be? Do they tremble or are they steady and still? Is there an energy emanating from them drawing you in?

It’s funny how sometimes too many hands in the pot can muddle.

Yet, too few can feel empty, alone and overwhelming.

As a self-confessed control freak I often feel that there is a surplus of hands. But lately, I’d have to admit there are never enough. Something is always missing these days. I just can’t seem to juggle it all. And on those hard days, which are more frequent as of late, there is no hand to hold or reach for to help me up.

Not in the way there once was.

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Outside In

Is my smile convincing?

I have worked extraordinarily hard on this grin. I’ve straightened it, polished it, plucked it, and whitened it. I’ve learned how to use it, too. I’ve figured out that as long as you see it, you will not poke and prod me. You won’t look too far past it for anything deeper. If I’m being truly honest, it’s not even that I’m faking. It is more of a survival skill. It keeps me from falling apart just as much as it appeases you.

Does this outfit look okay?

I’m much too careful how I dress. I put a lot of time into this over the years. If my clothes are ironed and modest you won’t look too long. You won’t think I’m stuck-up, or sloppy. You won’t call me a prude or a slut behind my back. If I look good you will think I am doing well and feeling fine. You won’t know I spend days in the same clothes without showering when I’m depressed. As long as I am well put together on the outside, noone bats an eye. These garments, these simple pieces of fabric, are armor to me. They protect me from you. Your eyes, your thoughts and your judgments.

Is the pinterest-worthy organized home doing what its supposed to?

It is supposed to look like I’ve got this. I don’t. I really don’t. But does it look like I do? God I hope so. I wouldn’t want you to think I actually live here alone with a three and five year old. I don’t want anyone to know that I struggle to stay on top of it these days. In the extremely rare event someone comes here I spend hours stashing toys, scrubbing toilets, washing dishes and generally, hiding all evidence of life. You won’t get to see that this is hard for me. I’ll do everything I can to prove I’m just as good at this today as I was a year ago with an extra set of hands.

Does my voice sound right?

If I’m talking to you, I assure you I am working harder at controlling my thoughts and response tone than I am at listening. I don’t want you to hear that today my mind is racing, or maybe that I just finished crying. If I talk too fast, you’ll know. If my voice shakes, you’ll know. If I don’t respond fast enough you might know it’s hard for me to focus. You could figure out that I already forgot part of what you said because some anxiety slipped in and distracted me for just long enough to deafen me.

The effort it takes to project this shield to the outside world is exhausting. I’ve recognized it over the last year. Recently I’ve begun lowering it to some extent. At least with a few close friends.

Most the time, there is something, however small or large, that I do not want you to see. For my own comfort and safety I keep my insides in, and my outsides poised.

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