I toss and turn a fitful sleep. Words swirling and spinning in my head. Starts of stories, snippets of poems, thoughts and to do lists. I feel the hard cement floor beneath my shoulders and hips and feel the dank, cool, wet air. I’m taking it all in trying to remember the words in my head as the tumble and spill over one another. They are just a raging sea of words looking for an outlet and outlet that they can’t find in the dark powerless night with no keyboards, no lights to illuminate a page. They are just a sea of words crashing into the rocks of my skull.
The winds blew in on Monday and left havoc in their wake. Hundred year old trees were snapped like toothpicks. Power lines littered the streets like streamers sprayed from a can. We were left without power for 3 days. For 3 days I wrote almost nothing.
It can be hard to shed the identity of your youth, to accept changes in the fabric that is you. I was a scientist, a geek, not a writer. I was crafty, and artsy, but I was not a writer. Writerly friends would laugh as they edited my pages again and again.
Motherhood changes you.
It takes that fabric that was you and it twists it up, tears it apart, rearranges it into this new garment called motherhood. Motherhood has made me a writer, though I still bristle at saying those words aloud. Wait for the taunting barbs, the stifled laughs, the feeling like a fraud. But if an artist is someone who creates art than a writer is someone who creates words.
I create words.
They may not be in the right order, they may not be amazing or clean or literary, but they are my words. I have a need to spill them out, a need I can no longer deny. For even if no another soul reads my words, I need to get them out. If for nothing else to calm the waters and stop the crashing in my skull.
Simply accepting my new identity, that’s my Simple Moment, Bigger Picture this week. What’s yours?
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