These days, we have to be pragmatic. Our time is either so plentiful we don’t know what to do with ourselves, or we’re so busy we hardly have time to breathe between doing things we don’t want to do. Both things suck and are hard.
Sometimes writing feels like a needy baby. A baby I love and I want time to relax and spend tons of time with. But it isn’t always that way, is it? Saturdays are the hardest for me, because with kiddos and few places we can even really go these days, it feels like it’s full of possibilities because no one has to go anywhere, but then quickly everyone wants to do something different, or get something different done, and we’re all restless and having trouble lining up and organizing.
So what to do? I don’t know. I honestly don’t have answers. I’ll tell you what I tried today, though.
This morning, I wanted to write a poem. I had a concept. I was starting to write my basic lines. The ones that are so preliminary that you kinda cringe when you read them back to yourself. And then, what? Well, life happened. I was pulled away. But that’s what life is. We’re grown ups. We take off our sweatpants and put on on our jeans and do what we’re supposed to.
So I tried to work on what I could in the car. My biggest challenge in poetry is creating that unique, show-stopping imagery that makes someone stop and reconsider something mundane that never before had meaning. I noted the cold air. The blue, cloudless sky. The weeds that–in autumn–had blossomed with these gorgeous purple flowers.
Did I go back to the poem again when I got home? Honestly, no. I looked at it. I still hate the lines I wrote this morning. It’s kind of a bummer. But for a little while, thinking about writing was my therapy. For now, I’ll promise myself to try and let it be that whenever I can. I hope I can keep that promise as often as possible.
In closing, what do you call that weed with those cool purple flowers? I gotta go, I’ve got a date with Google.