I don’t know what to say. And I guess that’s why I write. But it’s also why I don’t know what to write. And so I started this blog as a way to force pen on paper (or fingers on keys as is often the case) and to unplug the hole in my brain where words are supposed to spring forth.

But even before I dotted the period of the end of that last sentence, domestic obligations conspired to call my attention away. And then an alert on my watch that a meeting which was supposed to be scheduled for tomorrow afternoon was somehow inexplicably scheduled at a time of the morning when I’m hitting snooze on my first of two alarms. And then a chair is toppled over by one of my two favorite tiny humans.

But such is life!

I recently read a provocative book about feeding your creative soul, and the author advocated making life-altering choices to free yourself from the strictures of patriarchal society’s expectations and demands. Nah. As exhausting as it can be, I love mothering my kiddos. I also enjoy the love and companionship that comes with sharing my life with another individual (even though at times, that, too, can be exhausting, as love often can be). And as much as my day job can frustrate and annoy me, I think (I hope) I’m at least making some difference in people’s lives while being able to pay the bills.

But writing … my first love … my neglected love … I have to stop making excuses, doom-scrolling through social media, wasting time on ephemeral things that only serve as fast food for the soul. Now I’m reading more. I’ve taken up painting with watercolors and pencil drawing—not just silly doodles, either (although, still such a delight!). I attempt to play violin and flirt with learning piano. I study a foreign language in fits and spurts. I. Am. Blogging.

“The Book of Delights: Essays” by Ross Gay currently has my bedtime-reading-ritual attention. It is, indeed, a delightful collection of near-daily essays that served as a writing experiment for the author to shift his focus to the everyday things that catch his interest. Some of those things are whimsical; some of those are grappling with racial identity. I love these essays. It’s great inspiration, and I’m struggling to pin down a daily challenge for myself. So until I settle on some subject matter may stick with me, I’ll practice writing, just like this. I will practice opening up my mind, allowing myself to become more vulnerable by exposing those fleeting thoughts and feelings, only very lightly editing. And hopefully someday I’ll feel brave enough to put down in words what I really have to say … as soon as I figure out what that is.