Yes. A scarcity of something. Words. Here.
And it’s noticed, I know. A few folks I know have commented, casually, ‘uh, you haven’t written anything in awhile….’
And, then leave the comment trailing…
All I can seem to muster in those moments is a quasi-quizzical look and a mild sigh. Then, I try to explain what I haven’t yet sorted out for myself.
They know all that you all know about the the circuitous and yet full circle path I’ve been on, and so when they say….
“Maybe you don’t need to anymore?…”
… I am – every time – simply silent with no real meaningful response. You might say, a dearth of wit in those moments.
In my silence, however, I am uncomfortable. Not at rest. Maybe even slightly agitated.
But – and because – I am unable to articulate why. Even to myself.
Until the other night, or rather very early morning, when I should have been sleeping snuggled and sound; instead my mind was busy. No dearth of 3 a.m. thoughts, of that I can assure you. In that vast, wide open space otherwise known as the middle of the freaking night, I circled about, eyeing this notion like a bird preying it’s lunch down below.
I thought of something Mimi wrote in her last post about “becoming a paean to gratefulness.”
I thought about how much that resonated with me.
I thought about why that is.
I thought about how as a young girl, I was drawn to writing my thoughts and how when I look back at my old diaries, I see many starts but not as many finishes.
I thought about the idea of why we write. Why I write.
I thought about all this thinking.
I thought about the satisfaction that comes from writing.
I thought about so many issues sorted and unraveled because I wrote.
I thought about the community of friends and writers created and curated here, over time.
I thought about how it feels when I do write.
I felt it.
I kept circling back in my thoughts, back to the comment, ‘maybe you just don’t need to anymore…’
Like writing was simply a temporary friend during a lonely and unsettling time. (You know ‘that friend’ who constantly cries on your shoulder about this, that or the other thing, and never lets you know how things turned out? )*
A band-aid to put on during something that hurt.
A salve to soothe an an open wound.
And then I finally landed on the morsel.
But I do.
I do need to write.
I need the writing.
It is part of me that I (re)discovered during all that. The silver lining, so to speak, in the mess of of it all.
It’s how I distill meaning from what’s in and around me.
It’s a way of thinking that makes sense to me.
It’s like the friend who totally gets me. *(And I don’t want be ‘that friend’ to writing.)
And, I fell back to sleep, but not before imprinting this in my mind’s eye, to come back to. Here.
Because, I need the writing.
Even in the absence of angst, without a glaring problem to solve or sort. There will always be – the way I see it, the way I want to see it – something to distill.
So, what does this mean? I am not sure yet; I just know that the next time someone says, ‘oh maybe you just don’t need it anymore?” I know that I will say, ‘oh but I do…”
And while it’s true, life as I know it now is so much brighter, full of promise and love and possibilities limited only by infinity, it’s ok to still need the writing.
I need the writing.