I’m doing it again, y’all. I told myself that I would write with reckless abandon, that I would stop silencing myself, that I would scream the most primal scream, the most barbaric yawp, from this space if I was so moved. As long as I write.
And here I sit, getting in my own way. Again.
I silence myself because:
“Haven’t I said this before?”
“Why is this important?”
The sad thing is that, several times a day, I have a moment. It might be the intro to a song on the radio that immediately takes me back to being 14 years old and heartbroken for the very first time. It might be the way the fading sunlight catches just the top branches of an autumn tree in the late afternoon causing my heart to ache because the contrast of the gold on stormy grey is so perplexingly beautiful to me. It might also be the way Kevin’s hand lingers on the small of my back as I attempt to frantically dart around the kitchen, fighting exhaustion and the hunger clock at the end of a long day. Or maybe it’s the the way I reduce Sam’s tantrums to laughter in a matter of minutes.
When I experience these moments I want to save them up and write about them here, but when I have a chance to sit down and actually do it, I’m too tired, too worried, too distracted, too defeated. I recently mentioned to a friend that I should probably start a journal so I can capture it somewhere, if only for myself.
I authored a blog post yesterday for the organization that I work for that will be published in November. The post was about how even the smallest acts can have the biggest impact. And I guess that’s what it’s like here, isn’t it? Sometimes, it’s not about the biggest, baddest, greatest thing. My life is mostly composed of small things.
But just because they are small, doesn’t mean they aren’t significant.