December 2018

Every day I have a desperate urge to write and every time I sit down to write, nothing comes out. It feels like more than writer’s block.

When I first started blogging, I wrote about my work with kids on the spectrum. Not a lot of people were writing about that wonderful population at the time, and many reached out and said they got helpful ideas from what I wrote, and that made me happy.

Then I started writing about my life with anxiety during a time where nobody was writing about anxiety, and I was this big Truth-Teller, and people came out of the woodwork to tell me how brave I was, that they had anxiety too, that they could relate, that my bravery in sharing made them feel less alone and less stigmatized. And that was amazing. Except now – anxiety is just something widely accepted, that everyone has, that every celebrity talks about, that people admit to, that really isn’t stigmatized much at all anymore. So, why bother writing about it?

And then, again, I became this Brave Truth-Teller when I started writing about sexual assault, and yet again, people came out of the woodwork to tell me “me too” and share their experiences and say that me writing about it helped them talk about it or acknowledge it, and it was amazing and I connected with people and felt like again, I was making a difference. Except now, again, everyone is talking about it. Between the “me too” movement and the Kavanaugh hearings, and the USA gymnastics, and Time’s Up Now, it’s EVERYWHERE. And that’s amazing too, and I’m glad it’s so public, and while I know that there are still plenty of people keeping it a dark shameful secret, it’s so out there in the media that is there really any point to little tiny insignificant me writing about it more?

And so now I feel stuck. Blogging to me used to feel like this exciting, brave thing I was doing, because I knew how many people I was reaching and impacting. I would sit down and think, “What would one of my younger selves – my 7-year-old self, my 15-year-old self, my 28-year-old self, need to read?” and then I would write it. Because nobody else was. But what do I write about now? Do I stick with those same topics and carry on, hoping there are still people out there who will benefit? Do I write about boring and mundane topics like the fact that I’m still a sensitive person blah blah blah and motherhood is amazing and exhausting blah blah blah and here is how I’m managing my anxiety blah blah blah? Or do I stop? I really just wonder if I did my thing, made my difference, and now it’s time to let this blog go.

I wasn’t going to write a Solstice post this year. I posted the poem on Facebook and was going to call it a day. After all, I barely blog anymore (but, oh, I miss writing so so much), and what’s the point in writing the same thing I write every year?

But then amidst trying to do 623876 things and manage 987123 items on 8712 to-do lists, and being so tired and so mentally drained, all I wanted to do was write this post. Tradition, I guess. And that quieted part of me that yells, I need to write again!

So here we are. Solstice again. We made it. Now we move toward the light, and yet, it’s also winter now, which is the darkest times. It’s cold and dark and gray, and every day I am reminded that while I will never move for a whole host of reasons, I am not meant to live here. We are either moving toward the light or away from the light and all I want is a chunk of time IN the light.

Every year, on autopilot, I pull out this poem and read it, and smile to myself. But this year I practically got teary reading it – I READ it in a way I had never read it before. You know how you can KNOW something but sometimes something else tells it in a different way and it resonates in a way it never has before? That’s how it felt today.

My takeaway today was that the goal is not to not be in the darkness. The point is, when there is darkness, really hard and scary darkness, we can turn toward the sky where we know light will be someday. And breathe in deep and be thankful for the the inner strength we muster up to withstand the darkness, each moment, each day. We don’t give ourselves enough credit. I don’t give myself enough credit.

I don’t know, you guys, I can’t explain it well but I needed this more than I can explain. Hope it does something for some of you, also.

Happy, happy Solstice.

Towards the Light (author unknown)

By moonlight,
or starlight,
or in the sun’s bright rays,
I journey,
guiding my way
by keeping to the light
as best I can.
Sometimes all seems dark,
then I remember
how the poppy turns its head,
following the sun’s passage across the sky,
then rests in night’s cool shadows,
bowing in thanks
to whatever power
makes the stalk
stand straight and strong,
drawing deep from its roots
a wine dark love.
In moonlight,
the garden glows,
silvering the poppies.
And even by starlight
you can tell shades of darkness
if you try.
So do not lose heart
when vision dims.
Journey forth
as best you can—
bloom when you are able,
rest when you must,
keep your faith,
keep always
towards the light.

Month

Why I’m not writing

Solstice.