Today I feel pressured because I am short on time and long on tired. Brain-drained from my day I try desperately to float into my creative space and will something to happen. Well not just something, but something worthy of my time. And yours.
Reflective. Chasing shadows – of memories – of evenings – when there existed an hour, or maybe two, during which I sat alone in my living room while children slumbered in the other room. And I wrote. I wrote from the base of my raw heart.
I knew me most in those moments. And I was able to learn me more with every passing day. Each memory had its own space and freedom to pass from my mind, to my heart, through my soul, and culminate upon words and paper. I don’t know me so much these days. Not like that.
If I had known then that those years would be my most delicious writing moments, I may have done things differently. I may not have traded two hours to ruminate upon and re-live a day in the life of my ever changing children, for separate bedrooms. I may not have exchanged the chronicle of our lives for the house that became our home.
Maybe I would have done it all just the same. Maybe I just need to figure out how to be better in my now. Perhaps I am subconsciously hiding from the emotion I so easily feel because the rawness is unfamiliar now. Years have passed since my soul has bared so openly. Hard days have hardened me. Strength comes with a caveat of skin I am not always comfortable living in.
I would float all day in my head if allowed. Thought and word allure and tempt me constantly. They know, as I do, the craving that satiates me…and they will win one day.
I promise they will.