Tuesday was an absolute gift of a day. I had no classes, no homework, not even any laundry. It was also bright, sunny and unseasonably warm. So I headed out to town, ran errands, poked around in a thrift store, and took myself out to lunch. I sat alone at a copper-topped table with a new notebook, and spent a long time figuring out which classes to take next semester in light of what I've learned this one. Because suddenly, everything's changed. I am now in writing classes. Stories and ideas bubble up constantly: words, images and rhythms parade endlessly in my mind. It takes energy, time I must sacrifice to make, and commitment in the face of scepticism.
But. I am writing, and it brings a deep joy and satisfaction. So I took a few hours to ponder this, to evaluate where I am and where I would like to be going this year, and next. Writing means letting things that I have been putting energy into slide away into the background more (like, perhaps, this blog). It means personal risk, emotional vulnerability. Most importantly, however, it means I am finally doing what I have always wanted to do.
I don't know where any of this will go yet. Things are still small, unformed, unfolding. The tiniest germ of a seed. I know absolutely nothing about the publishing world or the business of writing. Right now I am trying to take this step by step, and right now I have my work and a clear purpose to be getting on with. So much change, such a different self-concept after fifteen years of nothing but being mama full time. Yet this is how it is meant to be, this life of ours, ever-changing, beautiful and new.
After lunch, I packed up my notebook and drove to the edge of town. I walked in warm sun through beautiful marshes. I smelled damp earth, heard marsh-wrens, flocks of robins, tree frogs calling. Chickadees chipped and chattered, fluttering around me, and a lone wooly bear scooted by.