I’ve been thinking a lot about blogging, and getting back into writing something every day. But I haven’t been doing it. I think about how I should have resolved to write every day, how if I’d started doing it 12 days ago it’d be a habit by now, and finding my rhythm again wouldn’t be so difficult.
Then again, if I’d made that resolution I would be quite disappointed in myself tonight. I haven’t written much at all this year. Not yet, anyway.
For me it’s about rhythm and ritual. I was doing well last summer, writing and posting regularly to my blog, working hard on Acceptance, processing all sorts of stuff and returning to old journal entries. I got a lot done—much more than I set out to do.
And then I started dating and then I met Jill and then I fell in love and in doing so I lost my rhythm. It’s no one’s fault, certainly not Jill’s. But now, four months into our relationship, I find this need to return to my Self, to get back into my rhythm and return to that authentic, essential me that I am when I write. I owe it to my Self, and I owe it to Jill. We’ll all benefit if I do the thing that I am meant to do.
This is, after all, how Jill and I got to know each other. We met online—sort of—and through a mutual writer friend—sort of. And then Jill started reading my blog and learning more about me. And I must admit I wrote an entry or two with her in mind, in hopes that I’d draw her a little closer to me. I suppose it worked. She’s quite close to me now, and that’s something I like quite a bit.
My hope is that if I keep writing, if I find my rhythm again and write regularly and love deeply and live beautifully I will have all I need in the world. I will be my most essential me. I will feel real and authentic and alive.
It amazes me that this thing I want is actually attainable, that I am so close to getting what I want, to having a full and rich life that, until fairly recently, seemed completely impossible.
This is, more or less, the prequel to that last post. Last week I started what I hope will become a ritual. I met Linsey at a coffee shop on a Thursday night and we opened our laptops and we wrote. I didn’t write much, but it was more than I’d written in weeks and it felt pretty good. The hardest part was knowing where to start. So I started with the best thing. The scariest thing.
Here’s some of what I wrote:
What I’ve been thinking about is how different my life is, how wonderful it has become. I’m happy.
A few years ago it would never have occurred to me that I would eventually write those words. I didn’t think of happiness; to me it just didn’t exist. In those rare moments when it did, I was noticing someone else experiencing happiness and I wanted to kick them in the shins, or worse. (I never acted on those urges.)
A few years ago it never would have occurred to me that I would find myself in a romantic relationship. I didn’t think that part of my heart existed anymore. I didn’t want it to. And yet here I am. Here I am thinking more of my love than of my writing, as I have been for the past few months. I have allowed this relationship to wash over me. I have allowed myself to soak up all the joy that it brings. I have allowed myself to give up on my work, to put aside my writing life and just play.
While that’s been fun and lovely, I know that it’s time to return to my work. I go through these periods again and again, so this restarting is nothing new to me. I’m not saying I’m ready to fully commit myself to the page, but I do miss it. I miss the way my fingers move over the keyboard, as they are doing now. I miss the voices in my head. I miss feeling that need to pen what those voices are saying.
And I think I can have this—in fact I know I can. I can have as much of this as I want. I can have my life, my friends, my love, my relationship, my career, my day-to-day, my work.
So, for two weeks in a row, I have arrived at the same conclusion. This is possible. I can live the lives that have seemed impossible. I can embrace these two loves of mine.