Posts Tagged ‘just write’

Just Write: Feb 21

We fish toys out from beneath the couch and toss them into a box behind me. For sorting, for collecting, and soon for packing away. She tries to reach her three-year old arms underneath to reach a far-in toy; the little one comes along and casually removes something from the box and toddles away. He told me earlier that packing with the two girls is like having six arms, only four are actively working against you. We laughed at that.

“Mama, are we getting ready for our new house?”

Yes girl, I say. We’re packing and getting ready. We’re not moving today though, not quite yet. We’re not ready yet.

I’m not ready for them to be in their big new room, to find curtains that fit new windows, which bookcase goes where, a toddler bed for the not-a-baby-any-longer. To unpack once again, finding where everything can fit.

I’m not ready for the new reality, the one that has me sleeping alone, he in another room. I don’t know that I’ll ever be ready, but oh, I see it coming so very fast. And then we will unpack, to see where we can fit in each others’ lives.

::just write::


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Just Write


Just Write

I like this idea. Free writing — writing freely, writing to be free?

Just write — just right.
What is right about writing? Everything, I suppose. The freedom is in the action itself, if only I’d allow myself to do it more often…

I think I’ll start now.

* * * * *

Words have been halting in my throat and fingers these days. These months.

These years?

I buy myself yet another notebook for the shelf of blank books. I stare at its pages, get out a new black pen, place them carefully together in my bag. There they sit.

One book has a few notes in it now. A new friend’s email address. A to-do list, and a packing manifesto. At least it is writing, I tell myself. But we all know better.

* * * * *

Inside my mind, there is a woman at a desk, scribbling furiously. Another one has her laptop out, huddled on a couch with her words flowing through the click of her typing fingers.

And then, there is me, I think, screaming silently.

* * * * *

linked up — just write

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