Not a certainty
Here near the ocean and sand
To see some winter
The night sky made bright
Satin dark and silver flakes
A canvas made new
I think it’s a gift
A boon from the universe
Unexpected snow
Not quite the same view
But I’ll take it nonetheless
Change is not easy
Here and gone too soon
Like many other good things
Worth it while it lasts
Here’s the short of it: It’s been over a year. I am so ready to get back to writing. And I mean, real writing. Like, creating. You know, the magic – putting words together and making something that didn’t exist before it came together on a blank page.
Here’s the long:
Having a 1-year-old, and the year and change in between her birth and now, is busy, crazy, different every day, and exhausting. It’s also amazing, inspiring, fun, and its own kind of magic. Lucy is my whole life, and finding ways to bring her needs into harmony with my own has been a challenge that I meet in novel, interesting ways every day. Some days, I succeed, and we’re both satisfied. Some days, I…don’t succeed quite as well…and she is happy and her needs are met and I have not even brushed my teeth. Time for writing? Nah. I barely have time to eat. “Well, you’ll make time for what matters.” Dude, have you had a baby? SHE matters. More than anything else. But I matter, too. And I do want to make time.
So, where does that leave me? What does it mean?
It means that, for the next month, I’m going to sit down at least once a week and jot down ideas, and good lines of dialogue, and when I can, a few paragraphs of beginnings and endings. And come January, I’m going to start posting short stories again.
I don’t know if I’ll do a theme like I have in past years, or if I’ll try something different. Back in October of 2023, I posted the start of something fun, and maybe I’ll revisit that. I would like to know how it ends.
I don’t know exactly what my writing will look like in the new year, but I’m going to do it, and there will be stories. I hope you’ll read them!
But for now, Lucy’s waking up from her nap.
I have a
little girl
to take care of.
Her world,
her future,
her life –
they start with me.
To teach her to be
kind
and
clever,
to show her
love –
how to and why –
and when it’s right to fight.
And to never deny
the darkness,
but always
always
always
help her shine her light.
Nothing else matters.
Everything matters.
Picture me just there
in the window
forever looking out
at the road and sky,
no more now than air
and memories
and the old, dry dust of
a thousand near misses.
You wish you could?
Well, so do I.
Wake.
Grow.
Bloom.
Blossom.
Change.
The season turns
again.
The past and present
are not the same,
but the cycle
is certain,
a constant.
And I can feel it –
down in my bones,
deep in my soul –
now
more than ever.
Here, there, and everywhere you are,
my hair –
in the shower drain and on the rocking chair,
fistfuls in my hands,
landing all around in tangles, clumps, and pairs.
You and me,
we were really something, weren’t we?
One day you’ll come back,
I know –
or, at least, I hope it’s so.
Until then,
my old familiar friend,
we’ll weather the (thinning) clouds together.
My people got a playpen
and they say it’s not for me!
But then why even get one?
Everything’s mine, you see.
(Including the weird hairless cat
they brought home in the fall.)
It’s almost like they just forgot
that Merlin owns it all.
I find that
I’m a student
once again –
no teacher now
but life,
little sleep,
and lots of advice
(some helpful and some…
…not).
I’m learning
to embrace
this busy, beautiful chaos.
Every day is
something different –
sometimes scary,
and always beautiful.
You are my whole world,
my brave baby girl.
There’s something about
writing a poem
that feels a lot like
coming home.
How lucky I am
to spin words
into roads
that lead there,
where I most want to go.
A Virginia Writer's Diary 