I used to write. A lot. Every day. The words would come out like a faucet and I’d catch them with my fingers and I would have it. A poem or an essay or a few chapters of something-that-might-be-something-but-maybe-it’s-nothing-at-all. After a while, the well dried up and only the last drops of stale words came out. Maybe it’s because I was really happy. Josh and I got married, I became a mother, we had a baby. That’s a lot of living. It’s hard to do your own life justice sometimes, it’s complex and you’re alive and breathing and soaking up all the happiness and sadness and certainty and uncertainty all at once. I think maybe I couldn’t write much then because it was almost too much pressure, to get it all right.
But I’d like to try now. This time, just to remember. No pressure (okay, less pressure, I am who I am). There are so many things I don’t know yet, but something I’ve learned about life is that it’s never going to be still, it’s never going to be perfect (as I write this, I can hear Josh negotiating Rowan down from the dryer), but it’s mine, and I love it and the people in it and for that, I think it’s worthy of remembering.
So, here we go. I’m not sure if anyone will ever read this, and that’s okay, but if, by some chance, someone does, please remember: I’m just a person, doing my best, making my own mistakes and learning (sometimes the hard way), the same as everyone else.