I’ve changed jobs. And so I’m reading less. My last job, where I worked for 13 years, was 50 miles from my house. For 75 minutes, twice each day, I would listen to audio books. Drive the roads I knew by heart and take in the words of writers. To feed my heart. My brain. My inner writer.
Now I work 12 miles from home. The urgency to fill that time isn’t there. It’s easy to tune into NPR for a quick news update. To listen to the local independent radio station. Or to a few Josh Ritter tunes.
But I miss the reading. …
Today I’m over at Project: Underblog, where I write monthly or so about books and reading. You can read the rest of my post about driving and reading over there. And hey, if you’d like to contribute to Project: Underblog, take a look at our guidelines. We’d love to read your words.
Read More in Jen Writes
Once upon at time there were two sisters. Each had recently given birth to her third child. There was much talking on the phone. And emailing. There was not texting yet. (Really. There was simply not texting yet.) The sisters spent their days with their children. The days were full of snacks and play and diaper changes. Fevers and dirty floors and laundry. Nap struggles and firsts. Solid food, laugh, crawl, word.
Once upon a time there were two sisters who wanted their conversations about motherhood–about mothering three–to be more. To be bigger. To MEAN more.
So they started a blog. They didn’t really know what they were doing. But they wrote. To each other, at first. And then just to write. And people started noticing. Other mothers noticed. Other writers. The world made sense a little bit more. It was all just a little bit easier. The messes and hard days and tears of struggle and joy weren’t confined to two dirty houses an hour apart in New England.
The sisters wrote and they wrote and they still talked and their children grew. They had a blog. And it was good. The having it and the blog itself.
A community grew, and the sisters found they had created a space for themselves and for other women, mothers mostly.
What happened then?
It went on for a while, the blog. Stumbling at times. Thriving at times. And the children grew. And the sisters changed. And everything felt more complicated. More layered.
I look at this site and it doesn’t feel like me anymore. And I start to write and my words stay in draft form for days and days and forever sometimes. I don’t know my place. Here. Even though my place is becoming clearer to me in my family, in my own choices. In that place we all call real life, as if somehow here, these word, are not real. It’s confusing. Unsettling. And something I’ve been pushing away for too long, coming to briefly and trying to resolve. And then pushing aside again. I don’t know what’s coming or if it will be an ending or a beginning. One, the other, both in some reverse order.
I know only uncertainty in this place right now. And I don’t even know how I really feel about it all except to say that it doesn’t feel comfortable. And I know that change comes from discomfort.
I do the calculations. Do the equation in my head.
Read More in Jen Writes, three kids
This morning on my way to work I heard the Traveling Wilburys. “Hi, Dad,” I almost said. “Thanks for joining me on my new commute.”
My dad died more than 14 years ago. He loved the Traveling Wilburys. He loved Roy Orbison the most. My son loves Tom Petty, also a member of TW. These coincidences of life are so much more than that, aren’t they?
I’m at a place of nostalgia right now. Returning to a familiar spot in a new capacity, I’m full of good feelings. There’s much to do and much to learn and yet it feels possible.
Last night at soccer the moon rose above the cornfield just past the soccer field. It rose higher, above the mountains, just looking as if it might interfere with the beautiful wispy clouds as the game was winding down. By the time we got home, a 10-minute drive away, the sky was nearly dark. I had to squint to see the path through our cluttered driveway to the back door.
Fall is more beautiful this year than in past years. I’ve spent many falls in New England. Most right here in this very area. I’ve climbed the mountains, been dazed by the colors, fallen asleep with the window cracked, the newly crisp, cold air forcing me to pull the covers up to my chin.
It’s all coming together. Work. Family. Life.
I’ve been free-writing recently. Pen to paper. Mind turned off as much as I can. This is difficult for me. I’m an editor, after all. But it feels good. And so, though I’m a few days late this week, here I am for Heather’s Just Write. If you don’t know her or her work, check it out. Share your thoughts. Then Just Write. Maybe even join in.
Read More in Jen Writes, writing