Hello Dear Friend, how I have missed you.
It’s been two-and-a-half weeks since I last posted and so much has happened since then—and so little, too. The holidays have come and gone and, quite honestly, I don’t have anything positive or happy to say about them. We essentially spent the whole time sick, first my daughter and now my son. At this point, though, that’s business as usual for us this time of year, as I’ve complained about before. It’s pretty bad when you want the holiday season to end because it’s so darn depressing and stressful. Instead of posting blog after blog of happy memories and tidings of joy this time of year, I’ve got nothing.
I’ve been feeling so down and out lately that I’ve had no incentive (or brain power) to write. And that made me feel even more sad and lonely, especially now that it’s time to get back into my routines. So, when I sat down last night—alone—in my living room to read a magazine and clear my head, I wasn’t expecting to feel any sort of inspiration. But then I came across an article about writers and what they believe constitutes a “great” day of writing. And I was blown away that not one of them said “writing.” Nope. Most of them said their best days are when they’re reading, watching, experiencing, being.
And there’s the spark.
I’ve been putting so much pressure on myself to write as much as I can as often as I can. But what’s the point of that? When I put pen to paper, I want my thoughts and words to mean something, even if they only mean something to me. So instead of focusing on and obsessing that I haven’t been writing, I’m going to allow myself the luxury of reflection, of sitting back and witnessing everything that’s around me—the good and the bad.
Because inspiration is everywhere and anywhere. It’s in my children. It’s in my husband. It’s in my family and friends. It’s in nature. It’s in music and reading and art. But, most importantly, it’s in me, if only I would remember to be still and take the time to look.
Welcome, 2019.