Who needs a journal?
For the past 15 years, I have foregone any sort of personal writing because, to be honest, it's been too painful. I have innumerable responsibilities, and for me, writing is an indulgence, not therapy. However, in order to write, I must dig deeply into the wells of my emotional center.
Why is this a problem?
I don't have time for that kind of emotion. I have nine amazing kids who need me, and if I am going to be functional enough to serve them, I can't spend my time wallowing in melancholy reflections. I feed my emotional center in other ways: I play piano, I read, I (gasp) play computer games, I study random information that I find on the internet. In other words, I do things that I can leave at the drop of the hat and attend to a child's demands.
Writing involves a level of mental commitment that I have had to sacrifice to be a decent mom. For a long time, I think I resented that. I won't deny that in weak moments I still sometimes harbor some ill feeling when I have to sacrifice what I want for a child's selfish and unimportant demand.
An amazing thing has taken place, however. Like a butterfly that emerges from the ugly cocoon, the depth of thought that has emerged from all these years of self-denial and sparsity have bloomed greater and more beautiful than I could ever have imagined.
Man, it was extremely, stinking hard to get here, and I haven't even arrived yet.
The inspiration for this post came from my morning's events.
I am writing a book and had been extremely excited about it until yesterday. Yesterday, my plot fizzled like a cheap firecracker. As a result, I have spent the last 18 hours or so in a personal funk. It would be nice if that did not spill over into my family life, but alas, that is the very reason I didn't embark on this writing journey sooner. I'm a grouchy writer.
All morning, my head has hurt, I felt sick and depressed, all because I can't get Liset Cortes to France in a satisfactory manner.
Now, it's Labor Day, and my husband is home. All day I've felt slightly irritated at his presence, knowing that I can't hide in my closet and try to fix Liset's problems when he is witnessing my problems outside with the crying children. Ugh. Plus, our house is a wreck and I know that bothers him which bothers me both because he's bothered and because it actually does bother me. Everybody clear now?
Well, he calls the kids all downstairs, lines them up like the Von Trapp family, and proceeds to inform them that they have 5 minutes to clean the downstairs. I secretly cringe, anticipating the scoldings that are sure to follow when the children fail. I hide in my room.
Five minutes later, I hear the timer beep, and my husband calls me to survey the work.
I am aghast.
In five minutes, my children have taken a 2500 square foot pile of junk and turned it into near museum quality. Without my permission, tears well up in the corners of my eyes, but I control them.
Then my husband who doesn't always catch my subtle emotional signals turns and notices the tears. He proceeds to accurately explain to the kids the inner workings of my mind, telling them that I am so sad because of the hours of stress and frustration it costs me to accomplish what they did in five minutes. True. He even hugs me.
What's the point?
I have waited patiently - well, not really very patiently - for the time when I can once again brave the depths of my mind and heart and express them in written form. I think maybe, just maybe, I have reached that point. The point where my world is safe enough to expose the raw edges of my soul to more than just the unsearchable knowledge of God.
I hope so.
And even better if it can help you, too.
For the past 15 years, I have foregone any sort of personal writing because, to be honest, it's been too painful. I have innumerable responsibilities, and for me, writing is an indulgence, not therapy. However, in order to write, I must dig deeply into the wells of my emotional center.
Why is this a problem?
I don't have time for that kind of emotion. I have nine amazing kids who need me, and if I am going to be functional enough to serve them, I can't spend my time wallowing in melancholy reflections. I feed my emotional center in other ways: I play piano, I read, I (gasp) play computer games, I study random information that I find on the internet. In other words, I do things that I can leave at the drop of the hat and attend to a child's demands.
Writing involves a level of mental commitment that I have had to sacrifice to be a decent mom. For a long time, I think I resented that. I won't deny that in weak moments I still sometimes harbor some ill feeling when I have to sacrifice what I want for a child's selfish and unimportant demand.
An amazing thing has taken place, however. Like a butterfly that emerges from the ugly cocoon, the depth of thought that has emerged from all these years of self-denial and sparsity have bloomed greater and more beautiful than I could ever have imagined.
Man, it was extremely, stinking hard to get here, and I haven't even arrived yet.
The inspiration for this post came from my morning's events.
I am writing a book and had been extremely excited about it until yesterday. Yesterday, my plot fizzled like a cheap firecracker. As a result, I have spent the last 18 hours or so in a personal funk. It would be nice if that did not spill over into my family life, but alas, that is the very reason I didn't embark on this writing journey sooner. I'm a grouchy writer.
All morning, my head has hurt, I felt sick and depressed, all because I can't get Liset Cortes to France in a satisfactory manner.
Now, it's Labor Day, and my husband is home. All day I've felt slightly irritated at his presence, knowing that I can't hide in my closet and try to fix Liset's problems when he is witnessing my problems outside with the crying children. Ugh. Plus, our house is a wreck and I know that bothers him which bothers me both because he's bothered and because it actually does bother me. Everybody clear now?
Well, he calls the kids all downstairs, lines them up like the Von Trapp family, and proceeds to inform them that they have 5 minutes to clean the downstairs. I secretly cringe, anticipating the scoldings that are sure to follow when the children fail. I hide in my room.
Five minutes later, I hear the timer beep, and my husband calls me to survey the work.
I am aghast.
In five minutes, my children have taken a 2500 square foot pile of junk and turned it into near museum quality. Without my permission, tears well up in the corners of my eyes, but I control them.
Then my husband who doesn't always catch my subtle emotional signals turns and notices the tears. He proceeds to accurately explain to the kids the inner workings of my mind, telling them that I am so sad because of the hours of stress and frustration it costs me to accomplish what they did in five minutes. True. He even hugs me.
What's the point?
I have waited patiently - well, not really very patiently - for the time when I can once again brave the depths of my mind and heart and express them in written form. I think maybe, just maybe, I have reached that point. The point where my world is safe enough to expose the raw edges of my soul to more than just the unsearchable knowledge of God.
I hope so.
And even better if it can help you, too.
