Oh, How I’ve Missed Myself

 

Exile and forgetting are natural states for most human beings, but so are remembering and recalling. All tasks are completed through cycles of visitation and absence. Poet, David Whyte

I received an email from a friend the other day checking in to be sure I was all right. She referenced my lack of blog posts as her primary concern for my well-being. As I read her email, I knew she knew me.

I have missed the part of me that is a writer.

I have missed the Dashboard of WordPress, the competing thoughts vying for the limited space on the post. I have yearned for choosing the term that describes the winning thought. I have ached to select the picture-paints-a-thousand-words photos to marry the text. I have missed hitting the Preview, then the Publish button. I have missed sharing who I am and what I know with people who value my work.

Yet my distraction has been a good one. This summer I purchased, then renovated a condo I’ve come to call my home. Day would melt into evening which brought with it a frustrating fatigue and a promise. I knew first hand why couples separated in the midst of renovations as I watched myself separate from many of my loves in exchange for the future realization of home. Every few days I would stop myself, then agree to write the following day or week. The time I had earmarked to write became filled with errands, paint selections, contractor firing, rehiring, writing a check, then another. The tasks gobbled me and I let it happen.

 

Midway through unpacking boxes and hanging clothes, I left town to go into the forest and listen to a weekend of poetry with David Whyte. I told myself that even though I wasn’t producing, I could stand witness to a master. I could and would receive nourishment through his exquisite writing. The rain, outdoors, chill, and words regenerated my weary hangover from renovation.

Then, a visit to my favorite people on earth, my daughter and grand children.

Each of these distractions were more like hand-picked personalized choices I relished and my exchange was the absence of writing. Today, this changes. I make a list of all of the writing that has been beckoning within me. This blog post, a book that’s three fourth complete, a curriculum that is beginning to feel stillborn and about to search for a surrogate, and my annual Christmas letter.

I am a famished horse at the trough. I am a writer at the keyboard. I am word-by-word welcoming myself back to the written words I’ve missed.

What is beckoning you?