My motto has always been “Time’s gonna pass, may as well pass it writing…” In my early years I lived by that motto, writing when I wasn’t working or carting kids around. I published a few things which was an awesome rush, let me tell you. But then my father-in-law got very sick, and my writing began to fill a journal–a communication journal for Rick’s sister and for the hospice nurses, and then a few personal journals came out,19 cent spirals, and the writing flowed on the pages about our life with two kids and “grandpa dying in my brother’s bedroom” as our 12 year old daughter put it to a social worker who asked her how she was one day.
Somehow that stopped the momentum of my writer’s brain, though, I did take those journals and spent 2 years, 7 months, and 11 days to write The Everyday of Him a book for my husband and our family about the time we had with dad.
And then college came with it all the costs, and my work became more demanding of my time, because I had more time to give it, and needed what I earned, and let’s face it, even with the few things I published, it wasn’t going to pay for the books or backpacks or dorm room stuff.
I felt a need in me not being met, but I didn’t have the energy to try and meet it, I was caught up in life and peanut butter jars and laundry and work and church and family, and making the bed and putting away the shoes, and… Well, you’re getting the drift.
A couple years ago, several losses of beloved friends and even my dog, Brinkley, left the heaviest burden I’d ever felt upon my heart. I worked, I looked happy, I was productive, I came home and I retreated into the dark space in my heart. I was a working depressive (coined here), but it really wasn’t working so great at home. When the darkness became too black, I finally headed into my doctor’s office, I needed to tell him about the crushing sadness, but I thought if I started, I would begin crying and never stop and maybe drown in it.
I was prepared to write it down instead of saying the words, but somehow I was able to say it and I was given a prescription for medicine and therapy. I was scared, but so numb that I just took my medicine and went back to work.
In all of that, as I worked long hours during the holidays, and as the numbness began to fade, I started to think that little need in me that I had not met had impacted the way I felt about myself in a deeply powerful way. I neglected a very important part of myself by not writing, and that was a true revelation. That part of me was dying away and with it a lot of my personal happiness. I know that this is, again, very dramatic, but it was dramatic, it was troubling and it was illuminating all at the same time.
March 2 of last year, son Ricky MFA said out of the blue, “Mom, you should start a blog, it’s the future of writing.” The second he said that, something inside me clicked, I swear I heard it.
The next day, I looked up blogging, found wordpress.com, saw that it was free, and launched my very first blog out into blogland of which I knew very little. I wasn’t afraid, I wasn’t numb, I was happy, excited, interested, and maybe a little cautious. I had no idea what it meant or what would happen, it was like launching a balloon with my writing in it and watching it float away high in the sky with absolutely no idea where it would land, and in whose hands and what they would think of what was written there.
A couple months later I went off my depression meds, not to say that the blues don’t strike, they do, but there is a balm in doing my life’s work, fulfilling my purpose, and how curative that is to my psyche. Like I’ve said before, I’m a writer and I just don’t want to die with all that I was supposed to write still inside me.
So, on this day, March 3, 2015, I say “Happy Birthday, Harmony’s Pearls!” You’ve survived your infancy with 9,610 views from 41 countries (I swear before I started writing this, I didn’t know the names of some of them). I’ve met good friends, and I’ve been inspired by other bloggers, who, get this, are inspired by me. How’s that for the unexpected?
Seek the place in you that needs nurturing, quit saying you don’t have enough time, or energy. Excuses don’t provide much comfort, but honoring your spirit and special gifts do.