I’ve neglected this space for two weeks.
I wrote a little bit about the reason — the birth of my granddaughter — here. But that’s only part of it. Honestly, I haven’t felt much like writing. I lost my appetite for it. Maybe just briefly.
Hopefully just briefly. Writing has always been my way in the world.
Mind you, even now, it’s not that I have nothing to say. Thoughts run wild through my brain. But I won’t pick up a pen, even to journal, although I tell myself I really want to. Why don’t I?
It feels heavy, like too much work. And who cares anyway, is what I tell myself.
Over the weekend I delighted myself by “Just do[ing] it” with regard to sone housework tasks I’ve put off, because it feels like too much work. I heard my friend Bobbi’s voice: “Sometimes how you feel is irrelevant. Just do it.”
I just did it. I folded piles of laundry, washed dishes, changed out porch lightbulbs (all four — burned out since I can’t remember when), cut the mailing labels off a box of writing magazines to take to my prison writers. (I’ve been tripping over that box for a month.)
It felt great, hence the delight.
Even this post. I began it five days ago and there it sat. For no reason other than I didn’t feel like writing it. Even though I wanted to. Which is baffling to me.
So there. I did it. I finished the blog post.
Now to that journal.