No more agenda. No more answers. Just words and sentences from mind to paper…or laptop as it were.
At a glance my life looks so pretty. But the glance does not show the moments, the glance does not show the doubts, the glance does not show the questions and the losses and the restlessness.
There are pretty things in my life. My marriage is mostly good, I mostly enjoy my children and being a homeschooling SAHM. I am mostly healthy and mostly kind and mostly happy and mostly grateful.
But I am also fearful and insecure and wildly restless. I daydream more than I clean. I stay up too late reading my books and writing my journals. I am an introvert with four children. I spent two years in a row being angry that I had to get up at six to be a mother. I probably drink too much coffee and too much wine and eat too much chocolate than is good for me. I have religious baggage that weighs more than I do and a serious complex about being a white middle class American soccer mom. I use swear words when I’m mad and when I’m excited and when I’m telling stories to close friends I know won’t judge me for it.
I want to be a published author and don’t know how the hell anyone with children actually accomplishes that.
I like myself and my family and my life and my body on Tuesdays and then on Wednesdays I cry out in despair because my marriage has issues and my children have attitudes and my life feels like a prison and my body bears the marks of having bore four children.
I’ve been writing again for a year now. Because a dear friend told me I should. And I gave up TV for books seven months ago because my desire is for everything that television is not. One Thousand Gifts, Big Magic, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, On Writing, The Artist’s Way, Man’s Search for Meaning, Soul Survivor, among others. Books that are changing me. Words, sentences, stories that are changing the thoughts I think, the dreams I dream, the eyes with which I see.
No more agenda. No more attempt at answers. Not now anyway. I just want to write.
My purpose, as I see it today, is to raise my children with all my heart, to love my husband with all that is good in me. And to write. If only for myself. If only for one reader, whoever that reader may be.
Writing processes my past, clarifies my present and gives direction to my future.
I do not have the time nor the energy nor the desire to paint with a particular picture in mind. I can only write as it comes, write as I see it, write from the good and bad and beautiful and hideous and delightful and uncomfortable seat I sit in.
We watched Back to the Future III with our kids tonight. We ate pizza and popcorn. They got ready for bed, the bigs helping the littles, then we read books and I kissed them goodnight.
Now it is midnight and I still have more reading and journaling to do before sleep. My spouse lies beside me. My children sleep in their beds down the hall.
This is my life for better or worse and I am a writer whether a single person reads my words or not.
Mother of four. Dreamer. Writer. Lunatic.
Over and out.