I can’t write.
This is a lie.
This I know.
I have written, and I will write.
But I find myself afraid to start.
It’s almost as if now that the house has emptied so that I can fully pursue my dreams I have become paralyzed.
I didn’t expect this. Have longed for freedom to pursue the dreams beyond motherhood.
The time is now.
Instead of seizing the day I seize the vacuum cleaner, the telephone, the dirty dishes.
I run errands.
Sometimes I curl up on the couch and cry.
Sometimes I play.
The Christmas break was chaotic and full. Noise rang from these now quiet rooms.
I cooked and cooked and baked and talked and scheduled who got the cars and who didn’t.
Then they went back to college, to apartments and dorm rooms and classrooms.
One at a time they entered their world, leaving me to mine.
I’ve given myself permission to be quiet. To grieve. To regroup.
I think I read 7 books in four days when Stephen left.
The other day I cleaned yard clutter neglected for 25 years.
But I was created to write.
I’ve dreamed of space to write.
To produce more than the four novels completed in the midst of child-rearing.
I’ve worked hard. Served others. Learned my craft.
To write deeper, stronger, more beautiful.
Even here. To be more consistent.
But even here I am afraid. Afraid to start again lest I neglect the pouring forth.
I want to write.
I need to write.
Please pray I can write.