My Shape of Words in the World

I’m still trying to get up my courage to start writing.

I mean, writing for real. Not on my blog.  I started this little ditty five months ago, and its taken me nearly that long to get brave enough to put my voice out in the world.  A small feat to all you hot shot New York-ish super humans, but its a big deal for me and mine here who are scared to take up one pound more volume of the earth’s atmosphere.

Its been a great exercise.  I started three blogs.  I’ve continued with one.  Exercises in self-expression.  Some people are naturally musical, or artistic.  There are great dancers, great speakers.  People who excel at socializing, others who are really great at languages.  Its not something I can explain, but words have always fascinated me.  I’m not sure that means I am a natural writer, but I think, at the very least, it is my form of creativity–my outlet, way of seeing myself in the world.

I no longer fantasize about days off that I can spend at the beach with friends.  I dream about an illicit cappuccino, my desk, thesaurus, macbook, and a babysitter willing to hang out for as long as it takes me to get my thoughts out.  For now I content myself with adding a new post after the baby has gone to sleep.  Sometimes I even sneak in early to the library to get some coherent words down without the chaos of the day’s obligatory distractions.

I have this on going conversation with a friend about how mothers write.  We’re so full of words and ideas, there is often no room for anything else.   So we do what we can.  We steal minutes between reference transactions.  We stay up too late, wake up too early.  We forgo time with our husbands, leave the dog with his walker.  I wonder why my period of self-actualization had to come at such an inopportune time in my life?  I have more to say than ever before, but I have less time than I’ve ever had.  I don’t recall the last time I had an unscheduled day.  They used to be uncomfortable and frequent, and I’d spiral away from myself with all that unstructured time.  A day alone now is almost too indulgent to imagine.

I love my family.  But writing makes me a better person.  It lets me see myself clearly, but not through reflective glass.  I sleep better after writing.  I interact more confidently.  I feel complete.  Isn’t that what we’re all after, anyways?

Finding a piece of myself here: education.  And finding another piece of myself there: travels.  Seeing my love concentrated in another human: my husband.  Having our love materialize in a new human: our baby.  Discovering that my experiences are valid and meaningful: writing.

I’ve got work to do.  Thank god I no longer think 28 is old.  Because its young.  So young.  So much life left to experience.  Even if I only had eight years left (like my dad, though didn’t know when he was my age), I feel that is ample time to leave my mark on the world.  But it remains to be seen what shape it takes.

 

 

 

 

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My thoughts...

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