You’ve heard of Indian summer and golden summer and midsummer and late summer… well, this has been the summer of my unravellings. I write all my best essays between 1:30 and 3:30 in the morning. The words just flow out of me then, with no children or chores or errands or NOISE, mostly, to distract me from my own thoughts and all apparently I do have to say when I find the energy and atmosphere to string it all together. It’s the worst kind of agony, that pent up creativity bursting forth at ungodly hours when you know you need to be catching your rest but you’d love to be catching your soul, too… Most often logic wins over heart and I force myself back to sleep. I know what happened to Sylvia Plath and the rest, after all.
The unravelings continue… I say “No,” more. I feel guilt less. In between researching & scheduling all the children’s therapies and vitamins and doctors visits, I make time for my own. It’s just been five of the most traumatically transformative years of my life we need to address, after all. I respect that I’ve been through a lot. I listen to my body. I stop when things hurt. I set strong boundaries. I no longer believe everything I hear. I give things time. Everything takes time. I give me time. I am learning to fill my lungs the other 75%.
It’s all connected, this handful of pocket scraps I’m giving you, today. Turning the tangled yarn ball of me into a reflective gossamer strand of spider silk, blowing in the wind.
I’ve always asked God to help me become the artist He needs me to be. Today I asked Him to help me become the artist I need to be.
That was a breakthrough.
