Forest fires

I haven’t been able to write much at all since November 2011.

I make no excuses: I don’t have more or less first world problems than any other writer I know and I need to decide if writing is what I truly care about and if writing is something that I am willing to sacrifice for.

There’s been drama lately. By lately I mean for the past four and something months. Amazing, horrific, breathtaking amounts of drama and yet even as I cling to the remnants of my life and wish to turn back the clock to a time before breaking up, before despair, before a quiet slide into the fuzzy dream-world of alcohol and too much sleep — today I look life in the eyes and ask how can I replant.

I’ve been reading Angela Mears. She’s all kinds of amazing with prose, a bit like my beloved Thene, and she wakes things in me that have been quietly huddling under all the drama, paralyzed and incapable of dreaming something better.

And yet I have to say, I want to be that younger self, that careless, dramatic, overwrought younger self who knew to take care of herself before all others because at the end of the journey the only person who walks the last few steps with you before you slide into the grave is yourself.

I spent the last three years in a dream, a haze, a delusion of Norman Rockwell. I thought that I could have happiness if I only cooked enough, cleaned enough, worked enough, subsumed all that I had into the idea of a  life which I had never had growing up.

No, I want no pity. This isn’t about pity, self or other. This is about looking at what I gave up my writing for and looking at it and realizing that I gave up what I considered mine for nothing.

I have nothing to show for three years of work except a devastating emptiness because I misjudged, accepting what I’ve heard all my life that I wasn’t good enough, obedient enough, caring enough, never ever enough using any benchmark, any standard.

I will re-plant.

I may have lost my house, my home, my roots, my plans for the future, but perhaps in a space with less dishes, less people to feed, less distractions to snag, less sadness to embrace, I will write more.

Rather than dwelling on coulda, shoulda, woulda and other similarly negative words, I can ponder the minute and delicate differences between push and knock and perhaps then I can submerge myself in something greater than emotions.

If I could sacrifice a vital part of my soul for an ideal of a life that I might never have, then I can sacrifice all else on the altar of what might be my art.

I am not afraid.

Where ever I go, there I will find myself. Again and again and again.

 

 

 

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