I looked back over my posts from the past week and thought to myself, "Most of this sure was a lot of bull hockey!" but the thing is-- I wrote. Every day. On a schedule. It made me realize how much I enjoy being productive. I like not only to write, but to put it out there. I am under no illusion that more than one or two people read any given piece, but that's okay, because it gives me a sense of... Completion? Identity? Release? I'm not sure that I can define it, but I know that I want to experience it more.
After wrangling the girls all by my lonesome at Mass on Sunday, I took some time in the afternoon just for myself. I wandered through the bookstore, indulged in caffeinated beverages, and then picked up a paperback and a new blank journal. I think largely due to accepting and completing this writing challenge, I'm ready to put in some time again. Life went all slippery fish on me there for a while. I was having a hard time really being IN the world. Not in a good way, an innocent dove/wise serpent way. More in a "Is this even reality? How can you expect me to accept this and function here?" kind of way. But writing felt solid. To just put something down. To throw out an anchor of words and feel (however briefly) less ephemeral.
Sure, I would like it to be decent, at least occasionally witty, and to conform to some sense of frequency and regularity, but more- I want to WRITE. Just add ink to the page, type to the screen, thoughts to the open ether. I want the impetus and anxiety of putting something out there that just might be seen by another.
Will I get past these few, sparse paragraphs? Will even one more idea materialize? Will I manage to wake up and repeat this exercise tomorrow? I hope so. But even more: I hope.