When I started this blog, I had no idea that life held such challenges in store for me. It seemed such a simple endeavor: now that my children were older and no longer needed such constant supervision and intercession, the time was ripe for making serious changes in my life. The option to make those choices, furthermore, based on my own wants, needs, and desires (within the boundaries of common sense and basic reason) had finally presented itself. And, albeit I had not regretted putting certain objectives on hold while concentrating on motherhood and raising a family, from the outset, the Master Plan had been to return to my first love (creative writing) once the children were older.
Yet, so many unanticipated obstacles have arisen.
Who could have predicted the sharp turns in the pathways ahead?
It amazes my how different the woman typing this entry is from the enthusiastic creature who embarked upon the process of chronicling this portion of life's journey an eternity ago! She is harder, less optimistic. Her faith in herself, in others, in love, in human nature, even in the basic premise of symbiotic balance in life have been ripped out of her, roots and all. What is left is a floundering of mind, body, and spirit so bewilderingly foreign that she stands bemused and disoriented, searching for familiar landmarks around her, within herself, within those she once held dear.
The most frightening thing of all?
I no longer enjoy writing.
As much as I tell myself the change in attitude is a temporary one, something deep within knows that this is not the case. Writing holds no interest for me now. It is a habit, comforting in some ways but by no means engaging or fulfilling.
It is all so terrifying.
Since childhood, the love of writing, of reading, of weaving sounds and syllables, sights and settings into intricate stories showcasing the many nuances of life--what it was, what it should be, what it asked of those who partook of it, and all that it demanded of us all--has defined me. If paper and pencil were not at hand, I scratched out lines on the soft-silted powder that dusted the summer-scorched earth. I wrote entire volumes in my head, able to mentally turn the pages and edit each individual line as easily, as concisely as my mother might have corrected her students' English papers.
It was all so vital. So very real.
Now I find myself wondering who I am, how I will spent my time, on what will I expend my energies, where will I direct my passions, what will become of me, what might I possibly do...
If I can longer write...?