His hand in mine feels so small and perfect. We’re walking and he’s telling me about the strong evidence that Jar Jar Binks is really a Sith Lord and he’s promising to show me all the YouTube videos that prove it. I’m barely paying attention (huh? that goofy Gungan a Sith Lord?) because all I can think about is how he looks the same as he did when he was a baby, minus the chubby cheeks and Michelin man legs. I can’t remember the last time I hugged this kid. Not cuddle on the couch while I’m distracted by Downton Abbey but totally embraced him and felt his spirit reach my heart. And now he’s looking up at me with his Abercrombie model face arguing Star Wars conspiracy theories. It’s the shot in the arm I need to be present in this exact moment because for a brief second I have the terrifying thought where have I been for the past 7 years?
Here. Right here. I am right here.
Maybe it’s my perimenopausal mind or maybe I’ve always been forgetful but I realized a few months ago that I can’t do what needs to be done in my daily life and write at the same time. It’s taking all I have to just show up where I am. You’ve seen those prompts where you’re asked to describe your life in 6 words?
I don’t want to write anymore.
That’s what I came up with. And maybe that’s my problem because writing has always grounded me but I think it has also encouraged me to create my own reality. And maybe that reality isn’t really real. Maybe I need to stop writing about it and just live it.
So that’s why I recently told a fellow blogger who asked if I’d be interested in guest posting that I’ve sworn off blogging until we close on our new house (fingers crossed, early next month).
And I believed it when I said it because not only have I not had the urge to write, I’ve been incapable of forming enough thoughts to write. I haven’t even wanted to read my favorite blogs. I just can’t be there and here at the same time.
I’m in that sacred middle space between where I was and where I’m going. I want to honor it and live it. I don’t want to analyze it and write it into a box of my own creation. I want it to breath into me and through me.
But somehow, it’s still not real unless I write about it.