Reconnecting

I have missed you, dear blog. Husband and I recently moved into our new home, and in the chaos of the move –packing, moving, unpacking, organizing, cleaning, fixing things, breaking things, fixing things, meeting the crazy neighbors, avoiding the crazy neighbors, searching fruitlessly for lost ties, right shoes, the dog food, the checkbook, the computer – I had little time to sit, think, and write. The move, combined with other various commitments, made me a mindless automaton. I worked all day and collapsed into my bed at night, never stopping to admire the sunset over the lake or read a new poem.  

This afternoon, as the madness subsided and I finally started up the long-lost laptop, I found myself thinking about who I am when I don’t have time to write or think about language. What do I do when I disconnect from my word-nerd alter ego? Are these activities worth it? When I fail to make time for writing, have I betrayed some critical part of myself, caused a vital organ to stop working inside me? I wondered what I had done in the last few weeks that could possibly be more important than writing. This list emerged from my meditation:

I worked to prepare a peaceful space in which I hope to write volumes of bullshit in the blissful years to come.

I reconnected with old friends and made new ones – the face-to-face way, not the Facebook way.

I discovered new writing territories, new objects for my musing.

 I remembered that in order to recreate experience with words, I must keep experiencing.  

I fell in love with my husband again.

I volunteered at a summer school program and helped children write their own ghost stories.

I tiled my shower. And then I sang in my shower.

I learned to appreciate indoor plumbing. One never notices the little things until they stop working and flood the bathroom.

I laughed. And I observed how my laugh bounced around me in the empty house, like a ping-pong ball against the naked walls. I laughed some more.

I rediscovered how alive I feel when I am in motion. As much as I enjoy spending hours tinkering with adjectives and adverbs, I never feel more present in the world than when I’m moving around in it.

I’ll write again tomorrow. Or maybe I won’t.  But whatever I do, I’ll be adding to the reservoir of lived experiences I draw upon when my soul needs watering. And living is worth a lifetime.