And I know it, but I just can’t go to sleep knowing I’ve let ANOTHER day pass without blogging.
What a strange week it’s been. It started with the flurry of excitement over the birth of my nephew. A bit of spring cleaning in the beginning of the week, then company came for a few days in the middle, and ending it all with a funeral, and an Easter egg hunt the same day. Life has been a crazy patchwork quilt, and I don’t know quite what to make of it.
I am now at my parent’s house for a few days, then back to Monroe Wednesday, and we’ll finish out the weekend there.
It’s a little bit exhausting, but most of it in a good way.
Lots of thoughts in my head lately. I find myself laying in bed at night, composing dialogue in my head, which is usually an indication that I’ve put off my creative writing too much. Honestly, it just gets pushed off to the bottom of the list right now. I can get away with it for a few months, and then it won’t be put away like that. I can feel that pressure rising, like steam in the kettle. I know it won’t be long before one of those midnight musings forces me out of bed, and I’ll have to put my thoughts to pen so I can sleep. When inspiration gets desperate, it will do what it must to be heard.
In some ways, I welcome it. I miss it. I need it to override my perfect schedule, create a little chaos to my order. There are days I’d like to go on a writing binge- I’d like to fall of the wagon, eating, drinking, living the words that have waited patiently as I folded clothes, and went over math problems, and brushed curls with a happy giraffe comb. I’d like to write till my eyes burned and my back hurt, and my fingers cramped and I’d gotten it all out of my system because I never seem to be able to do that anymore.
I’ve come to understand something, though. It’s not about choosing one over the other- it’s not about motherhood battling the writer I can’t not be– it’s more about finding that place where they coexist. Finding the balance, and being happy with it. Knowing the difference between self sacrifice, and abdicating yourself. I want to be both, mother, and writer- and I’m not talking about a published, famous novelist or anything. By writer, I mean, using that muscle that yearns to be flexed. I know when I’ve used it, and when I haven’t, and publication has nothing to do with it.
God made me both. It’s me who messes it up, who can’t figure out how to make it work. It’s me who didn’t understand it for a long time, who thought there was a choice to be made between the two, who mourned what I thought had to be the loss of something important inside me. But I am both, and somehow, I’ve got to make them work together. Because being one doesn’t make the other go away, ever. And I wouldn’t want it to.
Perhaps, though, the midnight hour is best used in sleep tonight. I am not driven yet by the sharp crack of inspiration, who keeps ruthless hours. But I may not be so lucky tomorrow.
Wishing you all well, and good night. May your dreams, be they dialogues or paintings or gardens or flying horses, be sweet.