There are all these ideas in my head, wiggling around like worms on hooks. But I’m unsure of how to start. Or where to put them. Or how they’ll be received. Or whether they’re worth getting out at all. But I know, having picked up and put down projects all my life, that ultimately what I need to do is just start, and make writing a practice again.
Maybe what I’m afraid of is that the part of me that writes things down is the part that feels this urge to analyze every irrelevant detail of my life, and that is so tedious. It’s annoying. It’s a part of me that annoys a different part of me. But I also feel like I’m losing myself. To work. To family. (My children, not my poor husband.) To a health concern. To having to be so on top of schedules, three or four of them. To work – it deserves to be said again. Writing is something – like exercise and reading and only a handful of other things – that’s just for me. So that’s what I’ll do here. I’ll climb to the top of the heap of all the things, breathe in fresh air in solitude, and I’ll survey. And I’ll release these words into wherever, and then I won’t worry about them again. Because the words don’t have to be for anyone else other than me.
So, that’s the idea this week. Just that these words are here, these words are okay, these words are mine, these words are not for me to guard or doubt, defend, qualify or refine. They’re mine, and that’s enough.
Here are other words I want to get out in the coming weeks:
this nagging health concern
health and a key to happiness
habits and getting shit done
building a house
the standing date
finding a tribe and letting go