A Meandering Path Somewhere Between Michigan and North Carolina

Recently I have had this niggling desire to write.  It has been a niggling desire that I have hushed up with social media, Food Network, and Utz potato chips. If I am honest, I have been unmotivated to empower my writing self because I am afraid.  I am afraid that I do not have anything new or relevant to say.  Additionally I have realized that most of my obsessive thoughts spiral around my children, and, as they grow older, I do not feel as though I have permission to write publicly about their experiences.  Sharing an anecdote about the cute thing your three year old did at the park is completely different from venting about your fourteen year old’s friend drama.  (I was recently mortified when I read a blog in which a mother had written in detail about her daughter’s experience with puberty along with a self-congratulatory description of all the cute things she had done as a mother to make her daughter’s first period a “special celebration”.  Could you just die?)

All of that being said, that niggling voice still calls out to me regularly. Most often, it clears its throat while I’m in the shower.  While I’m waiting for the conditioner to work, I mentally fuss about with a few different opening sentences.  By the time my feet hit the bath mat, I discover that some kid at my house has gotten into some summertime shenanigans, and any in-process word constructions dissolve like sugar cubes on a hyperactive five-year-old’s tongue.

Here in sunny North Carolina I find it much easier to cut myself some slack.  When our family lived up in Michigan, I had to be very mindful about my behaviors and habits.  In order to combat my weather-related seasonal depression, I forced myself to write, exercise, and interact with other humans.  On many days, I had to force myself to crawl out of bed and stay out. Here there is no need for such discipline.  I am energized and ecstatic when I accomplish a lot in a day, and I am content when I do nothing but feed my kids cereal and play Old Maid on the front porch.  It’s all good.

However, it probably isn’t ALL good.  I’ve been very sluggish when it comes to making new friends and committing to anything.  I have only plonked my behind in this chair to write one other time this year.  I’ve been stoned on sunshine and the indescribable euphoria that accompanies seeing one’s childhood home with different eyes.  Instead of inspiring creativity and any sense of urgency, I feel like the embodiment of a Southern drawl, slowly and contentedly oozing through the days.

No longer needing a rigid checklist of things to do, I feel a little lost--happy, but lost.  Somewhere between Michigan and North Carolina, there is a happy medium.  I’ll update you in six months and let you know if I’ve found it.