I have not been writing. After a while, the lack of writing catches up with me and I feel a constipation of the spirit. After a while, I have nothing to say. Find it incredibly hard to begin. After a while, I am hollow and all I can reflect on is that I am empty of reflection. It is then, now, that I want to dive into an impossibly big, BIG project. A novel! A three act play! A fantasy trilogy. Something that I can get so lost in that I can forget the huge hole in my heart.
What is really needed is to commit time and energy and tap away once again. Let go, rather gently, of grand ideas of escape and sink deeper into myself. How I would like to trade in my own self for the person getting on the plane to Australia with a beloved partner. Editing the galleys of a much lauded series, texting with my independent children and letting the house cleaner know when I will be back so the house can be sparkling for my re-entry. The trade is for so much I do not and seemingly cannot have. It is not what I am but what I am not.
And yet, I can begin tapping again. I can write a few more pysanky, go to the gym, clean another garden bed, take Julia to a cello lesson and cook dinner for friends. Recherché. To look for again. This is who I am today and what I have. I am fortunate enough to be able to define myself today by those. And to be grateful for each one.