"Why haven't I been writing?" I ask myself, and one or two of you have asked me, too. One part of not writing has been the fear of it. If you refuse to stop and reflect, you don't have to make any changes to your life. You can just keep going forward until you hit a roadblock.
So I let myself fill up my schedule with visiting. (I've been around. You've seen me.) And while that's mostly been a positive change since this time last year, the lack of quiet for my mind has crippled my ability to compose creatively.
When I do become introspective, cataracts of thought open wide, and out flows something different than before: a desire to sing, to play an instrument, to run, to laugh with you, to do something brave, to call you, to finally get back to watching Lost, to coach a Bible Quiz team, to plan a friend's wedding, to visit my sick grandpa and my outspoken grandma, to see a good friend far away, to plan a baby shower, to read that book... by the way, it was Wuthering Heights this month, and it drew me in like the sea, and rescued me, too.
It occurs to me that time is short; if I want to do any of those things, I had better do at least one right now.
I do still write, though, in my journal a few times a month. I write emails. I write advertising copy. I write quiz questions. All taken together, it is satisfying me for now.
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