Recently, someone mentioned they noticed that I wasn't writing as much. I had no idea this person even paid any attention to my public journaling and it was flattering that they had enjoyed reading thoughts that I put into text. Also nerve wracking. Because putting all this (envision me gesturing wildly at my brain and facial expressions) online for the past dozen years has made me vulnerable beyond what I realized. I'm sure it's obvious, but I don't much edit or proof read and these aren't always my best articulations. It's an old fashioned brain dump, diary style.
I reflected that yes, it's true. I don't write as much. Haven't for years now. I've been trying to figure out why. To be sure, Instagram did swoop in and capitalize on the easy post and caption market and I succumbed. As for more in depth tap-tapping of the key board into paragraphs on the screen . . . it's not that I don't have the time. There is all the time in the world for the most important things. So thinking out loud here, why I haven't prioritized my own writing for some time?
Number one is probably that I am plain old lazy. By the time in the day it is my turn for 1) the computer and 2) my own thoughts, well, I'm worn out and want nothing more than to veg on the couch passively consuming someone else's story.
Secondly, I feel as if many of the topics I would write about are not my own, more than ever before. There is always someone else involved and I feel ever more caution about privacy as my children become more independent from me. I would rather be accused of being too cautious walking that line than stray into anything resembling exploitative.
Third, I've never had much interest in global events or serious topics. I am so wrapped up in the little details of my own personal every day. I think I have less and less to say as the world gets bigger and scarier. I'm letting it drown out my tiny voice.
In times of personal crisis I've been the quietest, again wanting to be careful and sure of what will stay in black and white long after I am gone. I dread the thought of my child having to carry a carelessly worded burden that is not of their creation (they'll make/happen upon enough of their own)
And yet, I keep my ramblings going. Every one who knows me well gets the, ahem, privilege of hearing more than they ever really desired to know about my stream of consciousness. I am working on that filter.
I imagine that, in true Rachel fashion, here I have just said a lot about not saying a lot.
I'm saying all this because I have felt the lack. My journey the past 12 years of parenthood has had phases of losing and finding and remaking myself. I could wax on about the ebbs and flows. I have changed, I have grown. I like to think I'm more me than I ever was before. Still, I have let parts of myself lie dormant and I want to be ready to wake them again.
