Go to the Source

A friend of mine from college recently posted on Facebook a few photos of a quaint inn in one of our bedroom towns, a notebook, and a beautiful breakfast. She had said that all she wanted for her birthday was for her kids to not fight and to find some time to write. Her kids went into a war mode, and the frantic day got away from her before she had time to do one simple thing: write. That's all she wanted. Time and quiet to write. The next day her husband surprised her by booking her a room in the sweet inn with a whole night and morning to herself to devote to writing, while he stayed home and dealt appropriate rebuke to the kids.

It was the most beautiful birthday present, the most selfless act of love I've ever witnessed. He knew what she wanted and didn't take offense that it didn't involve him, and he stepped up to make it happen and made all the plans for her so she wouldn't feel guilty about leaving the family over night.

And here I am with almost nothing but time, and I do not write. I have an office, tons of notebooks, pens, peace and quiet, and no one to answer to once I get home from work. And I do not write. I felt awash in guilt, but not just guilt, prodigal. Squandering. Wasteful. 

Why don't I write?

Why do I write? Who is it for? What does it accomplish.

What is it good for?

Absolutely no one: but me

It is for me. What does it do? What good is it? It helps me figure it out. What is it. It is everything. 

I no longer write for public consumption. But I should write for me. I loved writing here. I began to believe that I had nothing to write about. I must have believed that I did all sowing all the gleaning all the treasure hunting I could in this life.

And that is how I realized today that Life Got Me Like...Huh. 

I'm not sad. But I'm not excited.

I'm used to excitement. It was my drug for many years. It was my raison d etre. It was my rationale. It was my excuse. It was shiny plastic medal that no one cared about.

I've been wondering about my life lately. Maybe a few years. I came down from that high horse of living on the edge. I've questioned lately if I'm in a rut now, or if I'm still trying to operate from a baseline level of manageable time lines and interests.

Does writing make me feel guilty? Like, I should be doing something productive instead of spilling thoughts and anxieties with a little rhyme and romance. Or guilty because it's not very good, and that's my fault? Or guilty because I don't have anything to write about? Or guilty about being so lazy that I don't see the things I have to write about? 

Guilt. How about I kick that hitch hiker off my road trip? 

I am still on a road trip. I have to road trip everyday, journey in place everyday. 

I think writing is like exercising. Do it even when you feel you have no energy, no thoughts. Make a list of things that made you happy or sad. Write out things you accomplished or why you didn't accomplish things.

I wait all year for summer to arrive, but days like these, and what is a day like this? A hideous heat index, that's what. 

But now, like the Neko Case song, it feels as if it's passing me by. 

And it should not. I am feeling this, but this is a lie.

I have a yard full of beautiful flowers to show for it!

My shade garden never took off, and it made me sad, but it's not exactly tragic, either.

We went on a trip to Traverse City!

I was a grown up and did a colonoscopy.

We had dinner with Ralf and Jim and a party at Michele's

We went to a baseball game on 4th of July and watched the fireworks.

We spent a long weekend at my parents' lake house.

We saw a sunset on Lake Michigan.

I stained my deck.

I fixed up my mailbox and birdhouses and painted a purple an old ladder I've been dragging around with me since my days in Salt Lake City, and it resides happily in Drunk Monkey Gardens.

I started running again less than a month ago. I saw a picture of myself from ten or so years ago, and that was my inspiration. I inspired me. And I have to let that happen more often. But it can't happen with my damn hitch hikers and hijackers. I became my own source of inspiration. I can do that. I can do that again. I can do that everyday.

I feel great running again, and look forward to running days. I am being smart about it and listening to my body. I am adding distance slowly. I am cross training. I am focusing on the doing not on the result. I am doing something I never thought I'd do again.