It’s been 3 weeks since I sat down to write at a computer. Somewhere in the middle of moving our family (again) and losing internet I also lost my creative muse.
Her loss was anticipated. I’ve moved enough now to know that at a certain point when bags are packed and suitcases zipped, there’s no turning back. All the energy goes into the transition, and I planned for it. Blog posts were written. Photos edited. Plug, chug, repeat, and breathe. It was a comfortable hustle to do as my world shifted around me.
As the move approached, I picked an end-date. I would dub this time of moving my sabbatical, and allow myself space. It felt good, it felt exciting, and it felt wrong on most days.
I knew it would be hard coming back to write. Protective barriers had been set around our family, covering us with one mission: MOVE.
Now we are moved.
My feet pace circles around my laptop, I’ve caressed the cover many days, only to busy myself with anything more mundane.
It’s Fear that has kept my writing fingers at bay. Uncertain of what would pour out of me, I might never be “ready”. I forced myself down into a chair this morning. There is a hot cup of coffee billowing next to me. A book glares at me from the living room, one part promise, a smattering of hope, and a tinge of anxiety.
The yellow edged guide is the hefty 96th Annual Writer’s Market 2017. “The most trusted guide to getting published.” Somewhere into the 11 months of writing on Uplifting Anchor, I decided to give myself an added mission. Submit 20 pieces to outside sources this year. Get published by someone other than myself.
Am I really doing this?
I feel the dust slowly sliding from my keyboard as I type. My fingers are flexing, remembering what it feels like to reach up into my mind and form words that mean something. A nervous, excited energy pulses through me and I realize yet again that writing feels like coming home. What churns out is not always noteworthy, good, or bad- but it’s a small piece of me that should not be left alone to collect mites and rust.
It is time to begin again, both in this new home, and in creating a space for writing. There are many more chapters of our life story to unfurl.
Our boxes will be delivered soon. Slowly I will unpack them, amid my toddler squealing with delight or crying over wanting attention. I will address both the making this place a home, and making this mom write again.
You are home in these walls, mama, and you are at home with words.