I have been waiting for inspiration to come back to me. I hang on to this blog, each day wondering if this will be the day I feel like writing. Surprisingly, I move past the question with a languorous shake of my head. No, not today.
Once upon a time, I couldn’t write fast enough. There was so much in my brain, so many thoughts that needed working out through my fingers. I wrote every day, I questioned something within me every moment. It was like I had to pull it all out and set it in front of me, so that I could know who I was, and what I believed.
But now, I just don’t feel the pressing on my soul. Maybe it’s that I am comfortable with my own thoughts, I don’t have to analyse them so literally anymore. I know more of who and what I am. There’s not so much angst in my life. Maybe it’s that I don’t feel like I have to convince anybody of anything. Not that I’m right, or somebody else is wrong. Maybe it’s that I don’t feel like I’ve got to be heard, because I’ve learned the hard way that sometimes being quiet is wiser. Maybe I’ve gone from needing attention, to actually paying attention, and that shift is evident in my blog.
All possibilities which, I suppose, make for a boring bookmark nowadays. But, oh my happy life. I am happier than I have ever been, buried up to my neck in The Ordinary. I am not writing so much, but I am living, wholly. Life is rich, each moment is full of flavor. Most days are sweet, some days are not, but I am never left wanting. I am not hungry anymore. I am satisfied. I do not need writing to fill holes in me, whatever shape they were.
Many people say (and I definitely see this arguement) that the best art is born from pain. There are Poes and Dickensons aplenty to say that yes, creativity can be conceived in the darkest places. I suppose, because in the lightest places, it’s hard to do anything but bask in the pleasure of it. But, something I’ve come to understand– it is far more preferable to LIVE in a joyful moment, than to WRITE in a painful one.
Not that all my writing came from dark times, it hasn’t. And it’s not that I won’t write again. As the children grow older and need me less… when I find there are empty spaces in the day again– I know beyond a doubt, it’ll be there. One day, I will plant my novel in the fertile soil of this life, in the richness of these days. It will grow to be something, in it’s own time. But for now, I am content to wait, to let the ground lay fallow. Let wildflowers grow here today, let the herds graze, let the tall grasses have their hour.
This is not a farewell post, by any means. I suppose it is just an explanatory one. I want you to know why the pace has changed here. I am not adrift, or discouraged, or overworked. I have not lost my muse. I am, simply, immersed. I am baptized in life, in love, in the workings and restings of the day.
There will come another season for writing. When it comes, I’ll be ready. But I cannot hasten these days, not these. Let another write for a while, it is living and loving that call me today.
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