Swellings and Spells

I miss writing. I don't have the time; I don't have the emotional space. What little writing that happens goes into my little speckled notebook that I keep beside my bed.

Last week marked the tenth anniversary of the death of a poet I once knew. I pulled one of her books off the shelf and actually read it for a little while. It made me long to get back to writing. I felt my soul tingle a little and I jotted a couple of phrases down the next day. But I was at work- no time, no space.

I guess I am just whining. There is one sense in which I have more time than I used to. My kids are getting older. Things are quieter. And yet, the pull between work and family and household means that there is always something else that needs to be done. Keeping my life going right now takes all the energy I have and there is little left for anything else.

And so despite all that I have to be grateful for (and I am), I feel a touch sorry for myself. Or maybe just jealous of those who have time to pursue the things they want to do. I had my time to do that, and it was wonderful. I miss it. Now is more of a time for obligations, I suppose.

I am writing now because I am the only one up on a Saturday morning. Joe had something to do for work. The kids are sleeping. So is my grandson, who I keep all day every Saturday. I know that as soon as the kids come down, it will start. This feeling of distraction and duty. Are you hungry? What can I make you? I will ask. Because I am at work all week, this is a day that I can give something. Or I sense them wandering around the house, bored, and I feel obligated to close the computer and be more engaged. Things I should do.

But still.

What is this compulsion to write that I never seem to lose? I dream of a retreat somewhere, time to myself to put words down. I imagine that I might have something to say, if only I had time to mine it out. And then friends send me things- you should enter this, you should apply for this writers' retreat. 2 weeks on the west coast? Yeah, right.

And it's my attitude that bothers me the most.

Often, I write these posts and never publish them. I have become afraid of being who I am. Afraid of the disapproval of my family, afraid of sounding self-centered and ungrateful when I have a wonderful life. But these swellings and spells, they pass.