My productivity is shifting. But, my typical line on the matter is that I’m not, but it isn’t an accurate statement. Hashing my list of personal achievements impresses me, and I’m a stern employer slow to awe. I’ve been sick…again. I’ve suddenly become aware that I insist my cold is a minor one. It never is. This one lasted just shy of two weeks, and it was grueling. But, that aside, I manage to do stuff despite varying attentions.
There is my Correctional work which delights me with its challenging diversity, even as it frustrates. Endless potential on many levels, which feeds my ambition in ways I had no conceivable foresight scant years ago.
I’m trying to make a go of this writing thing, but I’m not entirely sure what that means. In addition to this blog that has suffered in frequency the past few months, I’m attempting to extend my reach. All of my consciousness dictations requires time I didn’t realize I had, yet things are finished and looking for a home. Still stunning to me that people enjoy my musings, and such a morsel of approval holds value. I never planned to become a writer; can I call myself that? I also never planned to stay home, even as the ambivalence of having children blurred. Life is unexpected.
The journey though this unfathomed existence forms awareness of issues no one discusses, yet it is so acute among peers in similar circumstances. It’s wonderful having this time with my children, but that seems to be the only acceptable commentary. However, with all the happiness and peace of experiencing this pivotal impact on my children equally is loneliness and isolation. Writing fills a large piece of that void.
I think all the time. All sorts of things. Rapid fire at times, racing from one area to the next; but no one to tell. By the time my husband arrives home, I’m tired. Nothing terrible, but my choice is to ease into the close of the day. Racing keeps me awake, and I cherish my sleep. So, what to do with all my thoughts prompted by my witness, my imagination? I write.
There is something gratifying about expressing myself in a monologue of sorts that people read. Maybe an autobiographical account, maybe fiction, maybe social commentary; each account fulfills a purpose…a reflection and response to my world. My work doesn’t prompt scores of comment pages, but I like to think I provide fodder to consider. That has purpose in the throws of loneliness and isolation; as though my voice isn’t swallowed. I have my small reserved space within the internet and my nonspecific audience. I like to think my transcribed thoughts make a difference in some small way to someone else, even if I can’t precisely identify my hopes in this arena.
I write to have a conversation to an invisible mass because my significantly smaller horde speaks in swoon worthy broken and misshapen utterances or vibrating squeals. I love it all in an unidentifiable place within me, but equally those delights leave something empty in the same inner place. I write, and I feel complete. My thoughts arrive at a destination, and perhaps hold some power.
It hasn’t yet been two years since I’ve committed to this process that weathers the ebbs and flows as I find my balance. But, unspeakable gratitude to have this voice and chronicle. I don’t know where this path will take me, but the thrill of the jaunt seems guaranteed.