a little patch of earth

after a long hiatus, I'm coming back to the page.

I have been thinking of my writing like a garden long ignored. The soil is dry, the weeds overgrown, and possibility feels untenable. Attempts to water or prune have been short lived. Little glances from the window have told me all I need to know: I’ve left this thing too long.

First, it was out of desperation, as I adjusted to new roles, new homes, new choices. In this phase I’d approach the page from time to time, defiantly determined to pull out all these damn weeds so something new could grow. I would plant nothing new. That phase of life did not lend itself to calm observations, after all: I was newly married, newly a stepmom, and new at so many other things, too. I was busy maintaining what I could of my sense of self, trying to understand the growing list of people I’d let into my life through these new roles. Blank pages? No time. I don’t sit down for myself anymore.

My feet found solid ground, eventually, and then I voluntarily went around it: we decided to have more kids. Next, my energy went to new babies, toddler phases, and post-baby-existential-crises. What garden? I need a nap.

As our kid-count increased in number, I entered a phase of voluntary submission: I took that sacred space and made it theirs: let them play in the dirt and make dandelion crowns out of my daydreams. I did not want to write; I wanted, solely, to Mother. Besides, those little footprints in the dirt are so darling, how could I water this soil and thereby remove them? Play, instead. Play, and the bringing up of little souls, and snacks…and no writing.

Now they’ve grown a little, and I find myself in a phase long sought: I am desperate to write. I leave notebooks everywhere, just in case I need to jot, wonder, or doodle. I want to play now in the parts I miss: poetess, soul-stenographer, author. I am the afterthought composer, after all. Haven’t I been here all along?

A decade of voluntary false starts and happy runarounds has taught me many things. I know that inexplicable joy often shows up holding hands with a deathblow. I know the value of biting your tongue, and the taste of a blood-filled mouth from biting it too long. I know the power that comes with breaking a silence. There are some who will never see the good in me, and some who see too much: I am comfortable with both. I have found solace in the truth of my humanity; I no longer ask myself to be anything other than what I already am. I expect, because I know now, that I am capable of much. Through the quiet, through the chaos, through each unkept expectation, I have learned what it means to do this well: to live, dream, and take up space without fear.

This newfound desire to be prolific has me back here, knees in the dirt and trying to make sense of this Thing. For the first time, I feel zero imposter syndrome. I know I am supposed to be here. I am meant to write. This is, perhaps, the benefit of a silent decade: the backup proves the purpose. The soil is dry but begs for water, the weeds run amok but are willing to go now; the little footprints are cemented, and I need not fear their erasure.

Writers write, even when they aren’t writing. Writers know without knowing, that oxygen is only produced once the letters hit the page. It’s been awhile, but I’m ready to breathe now.