Making Room for Life

It is said, by many experts, published authors, agents, editors, publishers that what you put into your writing directly affects whether you are published or not. I, myself, believe” Don’t wish for it, work for it.” I learned early that I was never going to be one of those people that things come to easily. (Truth is that is just an impression anyway, a way we see things. We all have our struggles, many of which can not be seen by others, but often we suppose that if we haven’t seen it, it didn’t happen. Believe me, that’s not true.) Frankly, I figured this out quite young and yet, still, sometimes I’d ask myself why things seemed so easy for some. Well, you know, that pity party we all succumb to on occasion. Or is that just another of my flaws? Anyway, I’ve been rolling up my sleeves and doing things myself for so long: when I loved the look of my friend’s house with all the homemade afghans and doilies her mother had made scattered around, I knew that if I wanted that homey, homemade look, I’d have to do the crocheting, or if I wanted a pretty garden, I’d have to do the learning, planting, upkeep. And when my husband started working for the railroad I knew that, in many ways, I would be a single mom raising three boys on my own, mostly. I’ve always been ok with that because I love teaching myself things (I’m not too good with joining, group things, etc. I’m somewhat of a loner, enjoying silence, my own chosen music, and schedule and thoughts more than most of my friends and family. I seek quiet, alone space. It feeds me and my writing and my peace.) I love little boys, I loved teaching my kids, training my dogs, teaching myself, learning, learning, learning. I explain this because when the writing is tough, not going so well, or interrupted, tripped up and all those other things that fall upon the progress of writing, I tend to bow my head, get determined and try to plow on through. I tend to avoid necessary interruptions such as illness, appointments, family obligations, though if any of that is connected with my elderly parent or kids or husband or pets I do it willingly. So, of course, what I’m saying is I don’t always take care of my needs as I should in order to get in my writing time. I put off things I need, want so I can do my due diligence to the love of writing. In short I forget to live. I love to write. I want to put my best into it, so I forget, sometimes, there will be nothing inside to write about if I don’t take the time to just live. But life is funny, isn’t it? I’ve been so missing the one next t o me, day and night, the one who followed everywhere I went, the one who walked with me every day, brought me the remote, the phone, my trowel, a ball, a bottle, the one who watched over me while I fought kidney disease and railroad widowhood, who listened to my primary caregiver woes and worrying about the kids woes, and loneliness, the one at my feet while I wrote and listened to passages without more than a tilt of the head. I’ve been blue and off balance for months. I wanted to fix that but held back. The work, the training, my age…was I up to it? And more importantly, was my life, as it is now, up to it. Things happen and help for my elderly parent has slowly gotten to be less, as my parent’s needs are becoming more. I’m no spring chicken and time is running out for me to make a mark as a writer. Maybe, that’s all I should concentrate. Maybe, that’s all I should ask of myself, my husband and my life. Still, the spot near my feet has been empty and that emptiness echoes, echoes, echoes hollow. I agonized over getting another dog and then life and serendipitous opportunity and a sweet little puppy changed all that and I’m ankle deep in puppy, training, poop-scooping and laughs. Funny thing is this: I’ve had to spend many minutes outside waiting for the puppy to go to the bathroom, middle of the night waits, mid-morning waits, interruptions to writing time or training time over-lapping into the same. I’ve been so busy with it all, I’ve not seen a whole newscast, but I’ve heard the wind through the cottonwoods out back. Barely get the paper read so I know little of what’s happening or not with congress, the senate, terrorists, immigrants, the Kardashians. I don’t care. Don’t miss it a wink and I’ve seen the sky freckled with stars and gossamer clouds, seen geese fly toward the pond behind our house on silent wings loud enough for a puppy to hear, heard doves coo of love, smelled puppy breath and played in the sprinklers. I’ve taught sit, come, a name and smiled and smiled and smiled. But more surprising is I’ve written in blazes of glory words, words pouring from me, raining on to the page as fast as I can type. New stories, old rewrites, poems coming fast and sweet and good. My voice has become more natural, easy and soft. I’ve become more myself, relaxed, balanced. Yes, there is so much more to do, but so much more I’m able to do. It’s been as if I’ve awakened from a sleep. Am I still scared about some of those worries I had? Like what happens if my parent’s health gets worse, or my illness returns. Yes, but I can’t do anything more than live each day and I certainly shouldn’t make my life smaller. That doesn’t serve me, my writing or the life I am living.