I have had an impossible time sitting down to write for a while. Not because the words aren’t in there. They’re there. But it seems as though over the past couple of months as my body has gotten stronger, everything inside of me has gotten softer. Everything that can move like water is loose and moving in me now. And I worry that what might come out when I sit to write is more than I can manage and might carry with it a little bit of collateral heartache in terms of how the personal truths I have to tell may present themselves. It is a dicey time in that way for me for sure right now. And in that way for most of us, I imagine, if the waters of emotion are able to move freely inside of these strong bodies.
There is something about raising teens consciously that stirs up all of the parts of the wounded teen that is so close at hand within me. I think I am doing a good job of staying awake to the tumult and beauty and particular magic of these one-of-a-kind years. It’s so gorgeous, this becoming. And so completely personal and private. As I try to hold that precious with our teens, I am returning to the stories of my own teenage years with all of the empathy and love and enthusiasm that never felt afforded to me. On one level it is incredibly healing, and on another, it fills me with fire at all of the hurt I had to undo from those years once I made it into my middle twenties. I just try every day to parent them and reparent myself and I think holding that intention is helping me to rise to the call of my kids. It’s so high. Maybe the highest call I’ve ever had. And so, not so much writing about what is provoked and all the rest of it just now.
Another reason that I have been withholding my writing from myself is because I leverage it as a reward far too often. Until, like now, the words start to push up at my chest and I start to feel the anxiety of their need. I hold writing over me like a prize for checking all this shit off my list; all of the tasks that I have told myself are more important than the luxury of this time for myself. It delights me so much; sitting to write. But there are always a million things left to do, like pick up the fell apples, plant the garlic, put the garden to bed, stack wood, and always always always more and more laundry to sort and wash and fold forever and ever. So, like, the writing, no matter how good it makes me feel, can wait and wait and wait.
If you have read this far, the song I’m gonna pair with this if I turn it into a reel (tbd what this becomes) is dedicated to a feeling Chris invokes in me more and more these days in that middle-aged, raising kids, making a living, keeping house, and 1000 unfinished projects kind of a way. Like quick daytime sex dates when all the kids are out of the house and not rolling the dice with the zero fucks to give (all literal) at the end of any given day. I hope and pray that this is a IYKYK situation and that everyone has the good fortune in middle age and after so many decisions and pathways have been laid, to delight in the person they share their efforts with. It is everything. Even if we never stand a chance of getting it all done. And I will try to coax myself into believing that I can sit down and give myself to the sentences even if I couldn’t clear the list of shit.
So, that is it. And just like that, something else on deck. About practice of course. What else?!