I don’t know what it says about me when I stop writing, or perhaps I choose to not share what I may know. Regardless, it’s not the first time I’ve dropped off the face of the earth that is populated with vowels, letters, sentences. It probably won’t be the last.
The truth is, I’m just often too tired.
I spend all day being, well, spectacularly busy – and even on a slow day, it still feels busy to me. Being surrounded by people all day, even when they are the people I most love, is difficult for me. I like down time. In my last job, I was intensely present during sessions with my clients. I loved the deep feeling and thinking involved in supervision. I liked learning how to facilitate new things, like group therapy.
But even in that job, I had the odd ten minutes to play on Facebook or take a trip to the loo without fear of constant interruption. I once spent the better part of an afternoon composing haikus in the office, laughing my head off with colleagues. I took trains to meetings, and I had time to stare out the window, to read, to eat a muffin without worrying if it had allergens in it.
So when the evenings come, I am quick to attempt an escape – though often it is peppered with interludes of hide and seek, bedtime twister, and the like.
But in this period of being tired, of not creating, I am thinking I am missing the opportunity to have more energy by virtue of writing. When I am happiest writing is when my fingers fly across the keys, like when I played piano as a child. It is mostly effortless, no proofreading, no anything but letting words flow down my fingers and onto your screen.
It makes me feel good. Just a sort of sunny, warm feeling in my bones.
So….here I am.
Because I realise the other thing I miss in not writing is the daily things that happen that make me think, or laugh, or worry. I miss the sweetness of documenting M and his ever more complex creation of games within the Minecraft world. Or S and her love of the trumpet she got for Christmas.
I won’t be able to have cute pictures with every post, or meaningful commentaries on the state of life. I won’t be able to tell you about endless fantastic adventures or our evolving lives. Not always, not in the depth or breadth life deserves. Because I find myself trying to be more busy out there living life, even when life means wanting to stay in pajamas all day and watch Labyrinth.
I won’t be able to write uninterrupted, or when I am not tired, or capture some fossilized bit of perfection. Sometimes it’s not like that.
And that’s okay.