Shall I?

Shall I start this again? I asked myself loads of times over the last year. By ‘this’, I mean this thing that you are reading now. This blog. Whoever *you* are. So I suppose the question has now been answered because here it is.

This time last year was a flurry of activity. Girl-child had just reached the point of being really engaged and motivated to make stuff. To create. So we got messy and covered in glitter and went out collecting things that we could stick either together, or glitter all over. It felt wonderful. Quiet, gentle hours spent at the kitchen table together, creating.

And then came Christmas, and the flood, and multiple house moves and here we are one year later. Also, I got busy again. Like I was in the beginning, when D was a baby. This time, not nappies, purees and breastfeeding though. This time I volunteered, and in doing so, I entered into a commitment that is at once stimulating, rewarding, frustrating, time consuming and more responsibility than I ever thought possible for an unpaid role for parents. So I suppose I’ve concluded after a couple of months of feeling stressed, that I am missing an outlet. So in the absence of loads of time to get stuck into a visual project, the easiest and most flexible thing to do for me, is string words together. Again.

Already the pages of my private journal have started to fill up again after a very long period of nothingness. Because I missed having the little details of life to look back on, and becauseI miss this sense of untangling and perspective that comes from writing down my worries. In fact, I have been having some therapy again recently, which always helps with the untangling. Sometimes, as I leave the session, feeling lighter and surprised at my own realisations, I wonder if I shouldn’t just carve out one hour per week to scribble and save myself the money (not that I worry about that – it is money well spent) Carving out time is easier said than done. There are distractions outside of the four walls of the therapy room and reasons to let myself down, which don’t apply when I know somebody is waiting for me to turn up.

Showing up for myself is hard.

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