Noticing that I haven’t written a blog post in what feels like a long time.
A long time ago, my older sister told me that she used to write, but that she doesn’t really write anymore because her time spent writing seems better spent doing the things she was writing about.
And I – hmm. I guess I can only speak for me.
I think that the process of writing and stringing words together brings me a particular kind of satisfaction that nothing else does. I think that writing takes my brain to a space where it can better see the patterns and recognize what’s real. So I think time spent writing is time well spent, for me. I think it’s some of the best time.
But there’s also something to be said for spending time doing the things I write about, because most of the things that I find myself writing about are very much rooted in life. I think it’s good to spend time living.
Writing is just thinking written down, and sometimes I use thought as a way to get away from life. It feels right to me to try to temper that with occasionally living so much that I look up after a while and find that I’ve stopped thinking.
So I’ve been – out there, living. Mostly by myself, but not always.
I’ve done and and made and learned some fascinating things. And it’s given me that much more to think about, more to write about. It’s added something, changed the color and the texture and the flavor of my thoughts. I think they’re all the better for a little change.
I’m trying to get out in the world and live the things I think and read and write about. it’s been lovely. And sometimes – frequently – it really, really hurts. But if I’m not there for the things that hurt, I think I miss so many other things. And there are so many other things.
So many.
And right now, I have to stop writing for a moment and get back to them.