Today’s sun and warm temps were pleasant. It’s been a bit gloomy and the coolness of the last couple days had me thinking autumn might be making an early appearance. I don’t think so now and that’s a good thing.
I’m almost finished the current house/dog sitting gig I’ve got going on, but headed back to my other place today because I’d advertised several clothes and shoes for sale and a colleague from another life, a young mother and anglophile like myself, wanted to have a look. She was able to find several pieces she liked making both of us happy. I remember those post-delivery days when my body kept shifting before my eyes. One day a shirt would fit, the next day, not. So finding some nice things that didn’t’ break her bank is a sweet deal for her and I get started on trimming.
Another thing that happened today resulted from yesterday’s blog. An e-friend and fellow writer took the time to send off a note of encouragement. In it, she told me that what I write is my option; it matters not what others think. Of course, she’s spot on. But one line in particular caught my attention. She wrote that this exercise is for my own healing. It jiggled me when I read it. Yes. She’s figured that out from what she’s read and it was a wonderful feeling.
It doesn’t change my plan, though. I want to express myself differently because I can, and because it is a necessary step sparked and spurred on by that very healing. It is time for me to write like a writer.
I might still be a ways off. The potential for eloquence is there but might falter, words fall short. It goes without saying that who I am now is inextricably linked to who I was, though. As the healing continues, however, and I blend all my bits into a healthy stew, a new story emerges before me. And I’m excited to capture it in words. I’ve still a few niggly demons tugging at me, though.
A specifically troublesome bugger is my concept of time, or perhaps, age. I can’t be sure which is which. They’re not mutually exclusive for me. I’ve always felt there was no time for things. Even when young, I felt old. It’s easy to look back with regret and see how ridiculous, how out of touch with reality I was, but that accomplishes nothing. And now that I really am long in the tooth, well hell, it’s clear the little devil won. Almost. I’m still breathing. And last night as I lay in bed, a calm (finally) came into my head and heart. From that place I sensed I could commit to doing what I need to do.
In the light of day with the sun illuminating my conviction, I thought it best to trust. It takes persistence and even courage to quiet the voices in my head. They’ve managed me for most of half a century! But you see, I’ve been writing for more than four months now, so I can do it. The content will change is all, and I will write the stories I’ve wanted to write my whole, entire life.
So my wish tonight is for late bloomer’s courage. Did you know Little House on the Prairie’s Laura Ingalls Wilder was 65 when her first book was published? She’d been writing her stories, but… Grandma Moses, or Anna Mary Robertson Moses, started painting in earnest at 78. What point am I making? Well, there’s no time if I tell myself there isn’t. I’m only too old if I keep telling myself so. Stilling the voices of doubt that come from within and without is hard work, but I’m rolling up my sleeves. Care to join me?