Sarah Writes

I’ll be honest. I have a lot to say when I’m standing in the shower or driving in the car. Even, if you can imagine, while reading a Buzz Lightyear book to the little boys before bed–snuggled in between them, hunkered down on the bottom bunk, Ethan wedged into the space between the mattress and the wall, Max clutching his favorite blue blankie. My eyes see the words, my lips read the words, but I don’t hear the story. I hear my own thoughts. They tumble around and they are good. But the story ends and so with it my thoughts. I kiss the boys and close the door and even though it’s my time now, I’m filled with thoughts of must-do’s and have-to’s, contemplating how I’ll fill the quiet that is finally resting in my home.

When I open up this space and sit here to write, there is nothing. I begin draft after draft after draft. There are dozens. Not one of them seems to be something I ought to say. They are too much or too little. Too many details or truths, or not enough. It’s all been said before, I think. Reflections on motherhood, balance, presence. Reflections on happiness, suffering, identity. I have nothing new. I have, it seems, nothing worthy to put out there anymore. I am preoccupied with our finances, running a household, and decreasing my workload. I am preoccupied with the reflection of my body in store windows and, if I can stomach it, my own mirror. I am preoccupied with how to get it all done. But there is too much to do I can’t get it all done. In many ways this leaves me feeling empty, even when I am so, so full, too full. So full I am empty. How can this be?

Leaving the pages of this space blank leaves me feeling even emptier. I want so badly to write because for me it is connecting. And I need that. But I have nothing worthwhile to say anymore. I am drifting. Leaving and coming back to myself time and time again. Perhaps it is the time of year–new beginnings, new routines. Perhaps it is my shocking self-awareness that I am struggling more with the I Am Enough premise than I ever would have thought. I don’t know. I’m tired of thinking about it. But I’m more tired of wanting to write and not being able to. And of feeling lonely. I’m really f**king tired of that, too.

I’m about ready to delete this draft, too. It seems meaningless and inconsequential–something you’d write in a diary. This isn’t my diary. But I’ll force myself to hit publish. Who knows, maybe it will start the ball rolling again. Rolling forward, not in circles or around the house or through the yard. Forward.

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