Amongst the dishes, the laundry, the meal planning and lunch making. In the middle of endless Super Mario Brother marathons, towering cities of blocks and energetic games of hockey. Between practicing letters and numbers and learning to read. For scattered moments on each end of a long commute and days spent at work. In the midst of blogging, and a mountain of unread books balanced precariously on my nightstand. Despite my ongoing efforts to get well and because of my efforts to unlock deep and rich parts of myself, wading tenaciously through the flux of emotions that torment me.
I am writing a book.
The words are pouring, syrupy and rich. My fingers tap, tap, tap, flying across the keyboard. I didn’t plan for it to happen. It always seemed like a possibility, but never a certainty. And then, it started. I felt a great well inside of me, a ball of energy that is gathering momentum, spreading and compelling me to just do it.
It takes a great deal of courage for me to declare it here, so publicly. And even more for me to believe that I have something worth saying. But I think I do. And I also think we wait too long for the right time. The right time is an illusion.
So I’m digging in. While I do, I may be around a little less as I balance this between the pace of my everyday life. I have no idea what it means, or whether it will lead to anything. That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is pushing forward and letting it all spill.
Image: ‘Blogging?”’ via a Creative Commons license.