On Being

 It's been so long, I wonder if I've forgotten how to write.

I am almost certain things might work themselves out if I process my thoughts in this way, but I've felt resistant because, oh god what if I forgot how.

What if I used to be "able" and I'm not "able" any more.  

I want to tell you about being a mom.

I want to tell you about being a wife.

I want to tell you about being a bonus mom.

A therapist in training.

I want to talk to you about religion and spirituality and what it's like to go looking for one without the other and finding precious little of what we need.

I want to talk to you about what Friday night dinners at my house might look like.

And I tell myself, I am not qualified to talk to you about anything.

I will say, I am learning nothing is solved by doing nothing. I suppose there are situations and circumstances in our life where riding out the wave is exactly what is needed.  But even then, relaxing is something.  Resting is something.

Particularly what I mean, more than anything, is we don't get better at the things we don't do.

We don't get stronger unless we pick up heavier things.

We don't become less angry, unless we learn to manage our anger.

We don't eat healthier, unless we choose healthier food.

We don't learn unless we listen, read, or do.

This space was just always sacred.  In the very middle of things.  I shared and you met me here and that's about all I have to offer. 

But this sharing muscle, this story muscle, this writing muscle is atrophied to a nearly unrecognizable extent.  

So what if that's what we do now.

Just a few words here and there.

On being.