Old Wounds

A couple of years have come and gone since I've posted on any kind of regular basis, and oh how I have missed it. I stopped essentially because the kids were no longer particularly comfortable with me sharing aspects of their lives publicly. I could understand that, particularly as they were getting older and starting to experience having more of a journey of their own. But I resisted their wishes for a little while because my life journey is inextricably linked with their journeys, and I felt like I had a right to publish bits of my own story. But in the end, their opinions prevailed and I essentially gave up. I didn't know how to find a balance between publishing about them, and publishing about other aspects of my life, so I basically gave up on writing altogether. I found it all rather heart-breaking at the time, to be honest. I had printed all of the years of my blogs in hard cover book formats, and then tucked them away behind glass at the top of a book shelf so that no one could read them. 

Now, looking back, I can readily say that I really regret my decision to stop writing. I really, really, really regret not finding my way through that confusion towards a path of my own. I love writing. It's always been cathartic to me, and it's where I find bits of myself that I don't see anywhere else. Whether it's here or somewhere else, I need to find my way back to writing. I don't know what that looks like.

A little ironically, in just the last couple of weeks, as we were re-organizing the bookshelves in our library after having some house renos done, one of the kids found the printed books of my blog from years past. She started to read through the book with great interest and was totally engrossed by the memories that were coming back to her. I was amazed at how much her captured interest instantly opened a wound I had thought long closed already. I actually asked her to put the book away and was surprised that my voice quivered just a little in the asking. What I didn't tell her was that it hurt my heart to see her reading the words I had painstakingly spent so many late night hours writing, as a memory for her and her brothers. Clearly I have a little inner work to do yet, to overcome some residual pain.

I don't know if I still have it - the ability, creativity, desire to write as I once did. But what that re-opened wound taught me is that I need to try.