I’ve been thinking for a long time about the lack of writing in my life. Much like my prayer life, my writing life goes in fits and spurts. I journal intensely for a time; I write poetry into the wee hours of the morning; I crank out long reflections inspired by an event or a conversation that’s set me “on fire with rage and the Holy Spirit” (in the words of my husband). And I feel rejuvenated, alive, astonished by how good it feels to dip back into what I didn’t know I was missing. I find God in writing, and I think God finds me there, too.
But these last six months have proved a longer drought than I can remember. The birth of my son has inspired a few bleary-eyed late nights of writing, several attempts at elegies to mothering and nursing and the profound, life-shaking experience of birthing another human being into this world. But nothing sustained, nothing life-giving in the way that deeper commitments to writing have brought in the past. Most days the closest I come to writing is envying the time that others seem to have for it, many of whom are bloggers themselves whose work I read faithfully. (One of the few things I can do one-handed while entertaining S. with the other.)
But it suddenly struck me the other day, during one of these idle forays into the blogosphere. I was tired, craving a cup of tea and ten minutes to myself, during which I would surely read some poetry or launch into sun salutations or even – gasp – pray? Deeply, spontaneously, profoundly, as I must have in some previous life? (Idealizing one’s pre-baby days can be as imaginative a foray into the craft of fiction as any other delusion, I am learning.) Why was I reading these blogs, I suddenly wondered. Some are the work of friends, some perfect strangers whose poetic words or caustic wit enlighten or amuse or distract me on a daily basis. I enjoy reading their words, to be sure. But where were my own? Why was there time enough to google idly, but not time enough to write something myself?
And so it was born: the idea of blogging again. I had done it for a time before, enjoyed it – the habit of writing regularly, the interaction with readers, the chronicle of my developing thoughts. Perhaps it was time to relaunch?
As with any call, I put it off for awhile. Considered it, toyed with the idea, then immediately dismissed it. I’m too busy already. Full-time mothering, part-time theologizing. I cannot put one more thing on this plate or it will crash to the floor and shatter into a gazillion pieces. I am Too Busy to write.
But then. As with every Good and True call, it persisted. Bugged me. Woke me up at night. Whispered in my ear, set up shop in my stomach and would not leave me be. So one day (today, in fact), I sighed. Gave in and said yes. Took a deep breath, and decided I would make myself write again.
What will this blog be? I do not know; I hope to let it evolve organically. Part reflection, part wit; spiritual musings and sarcastic mutterings. A lot like this writer herself, I suppose. For now, I’m telling no one about it. I want to see if this is really the answer to the call I’ve been hearing. Maybe I need to write another way. But if I can keep it up for a time, I think I will invite you in, dear reader. You already exist in my mind. Besides, if I’m coming here, I’d like to not be alone in the conversation.