I don’t know if you’re wondering where I’ve been. Are you curious why there are no ramblings coming from my tiny clearing in the internet forest? Truth is, I wish the words would come. I wish I still felt the need to write every damn morning. I had the desire for so long and I would get really upset when I didn’t drag myself out of bed early enough each day. If the littles beat me to the living room I knew my chances were shot, if I took too long sipping coffee I could just forget it. There was so much from my past that I wanted to sort through, and writing it all out really did allow me to move past a mental place that I’d been stuck in for far too long. As I sit down to type these days, I find myself slipping. Slipping into this normalcy.
When I was trying to remember the who and why of me I could pour so much out and still feel like I wasn’t scratching the surface of all the emotions I wanted to explore. It took some time and while I’m certain that I didn’t share everything that I’ve been working through publicly, I am in a good place now. Mentally at least, the weather outside is indeed frightful and I am not looking forward to the next five months.
This sense of being in a positive place, has brought on the writing difficulties though. My life now is what I would call average, easier than it has been, well, probably ever. There is no drama or anxiety or fear gripping at me these days. Which means there is nothing much to write about. Not really anyway. When I write about my kids, which I have done in a couple of other places, I know without doubt that I don’t want that type of writing to become my norm (though this one about my girl is good; Growing Up). I love being a stay-at-home/homeschooling momma-like a lot, but sketching out these little pieces of my soul on paper for y’all is my escape, my break from that part of myself. I get fifteen-hundred words to tell you how I am not “just” a mother and that’s really important for me to remember. Writing about day to day mothering does nothing to fill my cup, I need to keep this outlet for my own self-expression.
When I write about my garden or the seasons and my joy related to those things I am happy, but these topics aren’t personal. I don’t feel a connection with the people I write for and that is a big piece of why I write as well. I want to know I’m not the only one, I want to hear you say “you too?, I thought I was the only one…!”. I want to see that the time I steal is meeting people where they’re at and that the ramblings that I simply must get out of my head actually matter to someone other than me. I struggle to feel that when the writing is quiet and peaceful. I like to write about gardening and I have learned, or understood rather, some of my best lessons while surrounded by nature (read here for an example of that; Teacher Bees), but gardening is a different piece of my heart and it’s not the one I most want to express in written form.
I’d like to write about the adventuring and the travel and a life lived differently (this one is pretty good; Little Adventures), but we still aren’t there. Winter in Minnesota doesn’t favor much in the way of exploring (though we have been doing fairly well so far). At least not for a girl who does not want to go out in the cold for more than an hour or so a couple of times each week, and so my opportunities to write about wanderings are fewer and farther between. This is painful to admit. Primarily because the travelling sustained me over the Summer, I rarely felt like running. I felt connected to the earth and was trusting my place in it. Now the most mystical thing in my life is my Pinterest page full of poetic quotes and lush, forest landscape photos. That is sad to type out here friends.
And so there are no words to share to you each week. No thoughts that beg me to give them a voice. No aching in my heart of hearts to cobble out a little quiet space and scribble these sentences…which causes me heartache, because I miss it so.
I miss it so.
I recently began giving my ten-year-old writing prompts at her request. She wants to write and she asked for help in becoming a better writer. I feel that I may need to follow her lead. I may take this space and this outlet and start writing some decidedly random (can I get much more random do you think?) articles or pieces of thought. I feel like perhaps that will lead me to what I want to share here, and that it will help me find that part of myself that I want to share with you all. I hope it will anyway. As the next few weeks come and go I further hope something that I give my time to will reach you, but I’m warning you it may get sketchy for a stretch.
I’m not afraid to set the writing aside if that’s what’s needed, but I keep coming back to it. Because I do, I feel that I should sit with it awhile, try to decide if there are words that have value still needing to be expressed. Or if there is something else out there for me, waiting to be discovered once this medium has fulfilled its need. I feel like whatever is next is right there on the edge of my consciousness, just waiting for me to catch up. I’ve asked myself to be patient and not rush along, I have time to understand what is next.
I realize that I am in a waiting season again and I am comforted, I’ve been here before. It’s a quiet space to take the time needed to grow, to decide, to trust myself again. The waiting season will always remind me of my garden, hidden under the frozen ground, waiting for a Spring thaw to wake it back up…the plants will be healthy and strong from this time of rest and I can come out of this Winter full of the knowledge and peace that I’m looking for. Perhaps this is what the lack of writing is helping me with?