July, August, September. They came & went, and I was here, doing something (primarily working, it seems to me. And driving kids around.)
But I wrote so little that it's only the weight of history and old habit - yes, I recall how to ride that bike - that tells me that I'm a writer.
It's an identity that I seem to have set down now for far longer than I'd ever expected I would, even with the new job and trying hard to stay present and available for the girls and D. Because even blogging was enough to satisfy that itch. And I haven't even done that. As is evident to anyone who might have been following this rambling record.
And it's an identity that I'm hungry to pick up again. I was going to start the day of my birthday (45 this year, since you asked). And when that day came and went, I thought of September first. Then October (blessed month during which I always write) began, and the writing didn't.
But I took a day off work today and I've had time with myself, and now I feel I can pick up the pen again. So to speak. I feel a little more in control of my life. Sorting through belongings can do that for you.
Here's a mildly humorous story. I had been very careful not to tell the girls that I'd be taking the day off because in the past, when they've known I would be home on a given day, invariably, one of them had taken ill and needed to come home early. And even a house with a child sleeping in a bed in a room behind a closed door is not the same as a house entirely to oneself. And yet, ironically, in spite of my careful stealth, R. called me shortly before noon to say she was feeling ill. She didn't want me to pick her up only because she hated to call me from work. And I couldn't lie and say I was at work - I just couldn't. So I got her. (I did take about 10 seconds to scream my frustration on my way north on the country road half-hour drive to get her. I don't think anyone else heard. And I actually don't care if they did) And then selfishly ran errands with her completely passed out in the car. She even slept through a trip to the recycle center. And if you can sleep through bobcats backing up around you and hundreds of bottles crashing into metal boxes of thousands more (broken) bottles, you're legitimately sick.
So the girls have visited the chiropractor, S. is rehearsing for Nutcracker for an hour, and I'm once again in the blessed sanctuary belonging to Peet, patron Saint of Caffeine-Fueled Writers. And all is right (enough) with the world. And what isn't right now, will be. Eventually. Even if it's geologically speaking.
There's a comfort in the shifting of continents, in theory. The shrug of the earth, settling like a great heavy beast into a more comfortable position. True, in practice, living in Northern California, it's a bit disconcerting. But what I'm trying to say is that forces greater than you or I are not bothered by whether the laundry is folded. And who's to say they're wrong?
