i should definitely not type this.
However. Tomorrow, they all go back to school, and my work day ratchets right out to fill the space. A whiz-bang.
I’ll be fine. It also happens on a tuesday, when they spend their night at their dad’s. So i will come home to a house that is quiet and empty of all the things. except seedlings, the house is full of seedlings. And i’ve been told the farm is ready to take more of my seedlings, so there will be two locations full of seedlings in a hot minute. So much explosion of growth.
And writing. (i’m not ending it)
I’ve had a really hard time getting my writing job done. really hard. I’m so damn afraid to take a break because I fear never going back. I still owe one and a half books, so I’m tied to it some. BUT goddamn. All I feel is dread about myself, and my inability to lock it down, focus, fit it in, make it work while the kids are home, spend all my spare minutes on it, all that jazz. It is not the feeling I want flourishing right now. It hurts my head.
But what happens if I stop it? If I stop saying I am paid for my words? What then? I feel a blankness descend when I think about a life when I am not talking about it, or playing with a word or two. what the hell man. I’ve painted, and stopped. I’ve grown things and stopped. I’ve quilted and stopped. The constant has been here, this blogging crater I fall into once a week or so. What if I stop writing? Will I curl up and die on the inside? I might. I don’t have a lot of faith in my inner fortitude on this one.
Will I be more upset with myself if I don’t die? Will THAT be the real death? The ability to soldier on without the beauty of the word? The end of it all. the no-spark.
I know. Maybe you can’t follow all that. Its a mood. Like the bookstack I might never get to.
- love you guys,
- love love.