|Day 1 of 31 at TWT!|
Writing, writing, and writing some more. Pouring my pumping heart and whirling head onto the page with the same fire from when I was a kid sneaking out of bed to write poems at night.
Living like a writer. Celebrating the small moments of my life. Scouring my world for writing ideas. Opening my eyes to everyday beauty and joy. Pushing through fatigue and idea-block. Sitting down to write "just a short post" and blinking my eyes back into the world after pushing "publish" an hour later. Trying to figure out if I can truly write a short post. The little burst of satisfaction that still comes with each push of that "publish" button, even after almost 10 years. The big rush of pride after blogging for 31 days in a row. The sense of relief and yet disappointment when April came.
And not just writing, but connecting. Visiting those old slicing friends who first encouraged me with their comments every Tuesday. Linda, elsie, Deb, Ruth, Stacey... each click feels just like sitting down to dinner with a treasured friend, even though we've never met in person. Remembering what made their comments flow into my heart and fuel me, trying to pass that joy and love back to them and on to others. She uses my name... she points out my craft moves... she remembers my life from my other posts... she connects my story to her life... she encourages me... she makes me feel seen. So much light and love, all those Marches and all those Tuesdays.
Of course, becoming a mom meant those hours just weren't always there! Sometimes, I found them anyway. Other times, the month-long challenge became a whatever-I-could-squeeze-in challenge. A not-perfect challenge that was somehow perfect for this perfectionist. Still writing, still connecting, more than I otherwise would have. Except in 2017, when life was just too hard, and in 2019, the most beautiful year of my life, when becoming a mom of two (in quite dramatic fashion... that story is still in my drafts!) took literally everything I had.
2020 was going to be my year to get back to my roots, to start blogging and reading and exercising and... yeah, we all know how March of 2020 went.
March. New words used in new ways: virus, pandemic, social distance, remote...
Suddenly a full-time mom to 2 kids under 5 all day (with nowhere to go!), squeezing something that vaguely resembled being a teacher into every other minute of my now-extended day. Days and hours and weeks and months slid into each other, overlapping and colliding in a strange haze of exhaustion-rage-perseverance. It's been March ever since, hasn't it?
And somehow, it's still March again now...?!
It's been creeping up on the calendar for awhile now. I saw it looming and knew this choice was coming. How could it be March again, when it's been March since before time warped?
How could I write? Pandemic fatigue, frustration, disappointment, exhaustion. There's no way. It would be better to sit this one out. No added stress.
And yet, how could I not write? The community of old Marches, when March just meant blogging and not the end of the world as we knew it, tugged at me. Visiting. Commenting. Connecting. Isn't connection what we've all been craving through this endless March? And it wouldn't be impossible now that I'm home for the year. No recording screencasts two hours after my bedtime, scrambling to distract the girls with some toy long enough to reply to a student question, or scheduling meetings during Husband's lunch break. Still tired, still stuck, still feeling all the feelings, but I do have the time now. And maybe this March, a taste of old Marches is just what I need.
After all, it's still... March. Again!