Hard places.

I want to write, but things are hard. It’s hard to take the time to pour out my soul in words. It feels as if my soul is being poured out in my every action and moment of the day, as I try hard to stay present in the fear and rage that my child experiences. How do we do this? How do we just keep pouring out our soul? 

I’m spending more time on self-care, but it’s not easy. I sneak it in here and there. A bubble bath when Little Man is not yet home from school, five minutes on my acupressure mat before bed, listening to a podcast or audiobook on my ten minute drive home. Sometimes, I drive in silence, with a little crack in the window. I’d love for my self-care routine to include massages, manicures, and delightful yoga classes in the community. It’s not. It’s quieter. It’s not daily. I’m trying.

I’m hoping to write more. I’ve got a lot of things brewing in my heart and brain, a lot of words that need to be spilled. I have ideas but I’m waiting for them to bubble up and spill over. I don’t want to force it. I don’t want my blog or my writing to become work. I want it to be the heartfelt reality of living in a world that is complex and beautiful and scary, all at the same time. That’s what it is. That’s what every day is. It is both the laughter and couch snuggles, and it is also the thrown tables and screams. All of it is the human experience. All of it is my experience.

 

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