All that enthusiasm about writing and poetry and words and wonderfulness is resurfacing.
The poetry books have moved from the bundle beside the bed to the table by the laptop. The lists of things to discover, think about, write about have reappeared. (The to do lists are still missing, but who really cares?)
Underneath the woe and the exhaustion, I’m still here. The misery is going away for now and I’m sleeping plenty.
Never mind going to a creative writing class, could I manage two?
So many people to catch up with: if I’ve been ignoring you, be warned, I’ll be back.
Of course, there’s still too much volunteering to do, but I’m trying to do pacing. (You may have heard this before…)
A sign that all is well in my world: I’m reading. It’s when I can’t read that remedial action is needed. I’m not just reading, I’m thinking about reading and about writing.
Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again. It’s like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can’t stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship.
from Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott