I miss writing. Reading is my true love, and it fills me up. It gets me thinking and wondering and wanting to discuss, which is why my husband is probably relieved that my new neighbors welcomed me into their book club. He likes to sleep. I like to talk about my books.
Writing is different. Instead of filling me up, it is a letting go. I sleep better after I’ve written. Unless, of course, I am mentally revising every word. But usually it’s better after I’ve taken a bunch of swirling, complex, confusing feelings and put them into some kind of structure.
I like structure. And organization. Sometimes I think I should quit teaching so I could spend all day while the boys are at school just organizing and reorganizing my house. Not only does it seriously need it, but I’m pretty sure I’d be a much happier mama every day when I picked them up.
Anyway, imposing order on disordered thoughts gives me back the illusion of control, which is another thing that is important when living with small, messy people and their thousands of Legos. (I know, the plural of Lego is Lego, but my brain hates grammar exceptions, so it’s Legos at this house.)
Today my brain is thinking about finishing the school year and teacher walkouts and what’s next for our family, and I’d like to spend the time writing it all out so I could finally sleep again. Sadly, after so long away from this corner of my brain, there is too much to say and too little time, and there are papers to be graded after all.
Still, even writing this much was a welcome release.