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Writing Something
This is me writing something. And it's nothing spectacular. For the past few months I've been all tangled up in the work-eat-sleep-work-appointment-eat-sleep-work-eat-work-event-sleep mode that years ago I associated with being an "adult", but now that I'm here, I don't feel like an adult as much as I do a pissed off, moody teenager who isn't getting enough time out with friends.
And sleep. Sleep is as satisfying as it used to be. I spend all day on my feet, running home after work to tend to domestic duties so I can have the house in order before I head out to run errands and attend my weekly commitments, so I can come home feeling accomplished, grocery bags in hand, and make dinner. And just as I'm about to stand up to clear the dinner dishes, I realize it's the first time I've really sat down all day. And then it's ten o'clock and there's lunches to make and emails to send and then I'm off to bed and, the alarm clock goes off at 5 am and feeling like I haven't slept yet, it's time to start the day ....
Life has been a hurricane lately, and when I look back and try to see what I've accomplished or what I've enjoyed, I'm not really sure except that there was a brief moment the other night when I was sitting on the couch, I muted the commercials, and wrote two lines on a scratch pad. Two lines for a story I've been writing for seven years and have never managed to finished because stuff like that -- the things in life that you love, that you do simply for pleasure -- don't seem to find time in your life. Most people don't get paid to do the things they love, so the things that do pay take precedence, and time. Oh the time we spend working!
I have a lot of freedom. No kids, no pets, the house to myself several hours a day and yet I have to sneak in two lines. That sneaky moment where for thirty minutes there was nothing that needed to be done (or, I was avoiding what needed to be done in order to catch my breath) and I could sit like a zombie in front of the TV, and miraculously, write down two lines. Twenty-two words.
Twenty-two words that for weeks have been swirling in my head and I haven't had the time/energy/utensils to write them down.
But hey, here's to today: This is me writing something.
And sleep. Sleep is as satisfying as it used to be. I spend all day on my feet, running home after work to tend to domestic duties so I can have the house in order before I head out to run errands and attend my weekly commitments, so I can come home feeling accomplished, grocery bags in hand, and make dinner. And just as I'm about to stand up to clear the dinner dishes, I realize it's the first time I've really sat down all day. And then it's ten o'clock and there's lunches to make and emails to send and then I'm off to bed and, the alarm clock goes off at 5 am and feeling like I haven't slept yet, it's time to start the day ....
Life has been a hurricane lately, and when I look back and try to see what I've accomplished or what I've enjoyed, I'm not really sure except that there was a brief moment the other night when I was sitting on the couch, I muted the commercials, and wrote two lines on a scratch pad. Two lines for a story I've been writing for seven years and have never managed to finished because stuff like that -- the things in life that you love, that you do simply for pleasure -- don't seem to find time in your life. Most people don't get paid to do the things they love, so the things that do pay take precedence, and time. Oh the time we spend working!
I have a lot of freedom. No kids, no pets, the house to myself several hours a day and yet I have to sneak in two lines. That sneaky moment where for thirty minutes there was nothing that needed to be done (or, I was avoiding what needed to be done in order to catch my breath) and I could sit like a zombie in front of the TV, and miraculously, write down two lines. Twenty-two words.
Twenty-two words that for weeks have been swirling in my head and I haven't had the time/energy/utensils to write them down.
But hey, here's to today: This is me writing something.
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