I used to feel so powerful about my writing, like it was a part of me, like it flowed from the deepest part of my being. Now, that place feels fractured and small, hard to focus on one small task or idea.
Oh, I feel the inspiration all right, but it's like a wave crashing over me instead a stream I can direct or channel into something worth while. I often think it is because I don't have enough time to myself, time to think or time to gather my thoughts. But I have had whole summers and weeks over winter breaks where I have hours and days to think and wool gather. Still, my thoughts seem like the shards of scattered glass that used to be a window into my soul.
If I could write, I think, what would I write about? So often I feel a deep urge to write, yet when I do nothing I cared about monumentally moments before seems worth the effort of even tapping it onto the keyboard.
So here it is.
If I could write, this is what I would write about:
I would write about how much I miss my friend who died in a crash two years ago. How I think of her often even though I didn't think we were close at the time she died.
I would write about how hard it is to grow up and realize that even when you've "made it" with a job and a husband and a mortgage, it's still hard just to get through the day.
I would write about how beautiful the snow looks when it covers the ground in winter. How the purple shadows cast everything into beautiful relief. How even a single flake takes me back to my college days when I felt so confident and free. I would write about the blank slate of the white ground that allows my puppy to write his existence in paw prints as he dashes through the snow.
I would write about the joy of owning a dog and a cat and how stressful being responsible for other living creatures can be.
I would write about how important family is to me now. How hard it is to wonder where my brother will go after college, if I will go back to seeing him twice a year. I would write about how hard it is to watch my husband's family struggle with their move and their sick daughter.
I would write about every character that lurks in the shadows, down country lanes and in shady groves of elm trees. I would write their every love affair and every flaw, along with their joys and sorrows and fears.
I would, if I could, but that gift is gone from me it seems.
So instead, here is a picture of my animals looking cozy over winter break. Perhaps they can speak for me.
