“The last time” gets to be so far in the past that I become embarrassed by the length of time between posts, between emails to friends, between resurfacing to check-in with myself. I’m not doing poorly. I’m just, like many of you I suspect, barely keeping all the balls up in the air during this juggling act called motherhood.
I spend a lot of time thinking about writing. It’s laughable. Why don’t I just write about my thinking instead. It’s a good idea, just hard to do in the car, which is when I find space and time for reflection.
I’ve been subtly putting constant pressure on myself to write, which evidently has lead to very little writing.
I was listening to Liz Gilbert’s magic lessons podcast, which I enjoy very much. But I’ve put that aside for now. I was feeling too guilty for not getting up at 4:30am and writing (you know, I could get up at 4:30am to write and follow it by a 5:30 to 6:30am workout, and then get Gummy up and ready for the day, make my lunch, our breakfast, get her to daycare by 8:15am if at all possible. Riiiiiiiight.)
But writing forgives me and waits, despite my neglect. It sits there quietly calling my name, but never imploring or guilt-inducing. It says “I’m here for you”, and asks for nothing in return.
I broke up with Mr. Right Now. He was the most delicious lover. But he saw me as The Woman he’d been waiting for and I couldn’t keep up with that story. When I ended it, I decided it was time to love myself fiercely. Yes, fiercely goddammit. Not just like myself and get to know myself and give myself a break. I decided I have to put all that energy I had for Mr. Right Now and give it me. Because I need it. And possibly deserve it.
Writing is a way I can love myself fiercely. I get to, as Anais Nin says, “taste life twice”. I get to hear my voice more clearly when I write. I feel soothed by it. What are the reasons you write?