So many inner-voices show up to tackle the mundane and the life-changing; and they don’t always agree.
Am I creative? Am I willing to fail?
As I face these questions, I squirm.
I feel like a caterpillar in a silk cocoon, not quite sure where I am in my evolution, but feeling as if some transition is unfolding, out-of-sight.
What transition, I’m not sure. Nor why.
Being unsure, I feel afraid, uncertain, confused.
With a tinge of hopeful anticipation.
Given the nature of life, sh*t happened this past year. The same month I started blogging, mom almost died. She didn’t, not then, but 6-months later cancer got her. My blog turned out to be an unexpected blessing; a place I could try and make sense of mom’s last months. Who would’ve known when I launched WTG it would give me a place to unpack stuff, and get support from fellow bloggers?
At this time last year, I was still working, self-employed. After mom’s first hospital scare, I scaled back my hours to be available. It allowed several trips east to help navigate mom’s health issues. After her death, I called it quits, claiming sabbatical, but wondering if I’ll ever go back to seeing clients. I was ready to stop; this was an easy nudge.
Given the time I’ve spent helping dad with things—some of which mom used to handle—I’m grateful I’m not also juggling a full-time job. Between mom’s-post-death stuff, Board duties, Bubba-relationship, and blogging, my days are filled. As some commitments fade away, I’ll see what new interests reveal themselves. Maybe National Novel Writing Month?
Not working is intriguing.
Friends thinking about retiring fear they won’t know what to do with their days.
Friends who’ve retired say they’re always busy, although half-the-time they admit they can’t figure out what they did all day. They share a persistent wondering: “how’d I used to work full-time, raise kids, do the shopping, run errands, make meals, clean the house and occasionally have fun?”
Sabbatical is my version of not working; certainly of being busy while not getting paid. My experience throws me solidly in the how’d I used to manage all that stuff camp.
I’m getting a taste of not working; feeling a nudge toward retirement. I like it.
How about you? If you’re retired (or nearing retirement) or on sabbatical, what inner voices chirp away in your head? Are you embracing or resisting it? Scared by or excited by it?
And if you’re fully immersed in it, what fills your days?
Photo source: geralt on Pixabay
I want to write, but without a deadline or structure, my practice gets wiffly. My journal gets used when life gets sucky. Good news is, life has been agreeable lately. Bad news is, I haven’t written as much. So, to encourage myself, I started this blog two months ago with a goal to post every day. It put a structure in front of me that helped me stay on the writing rails.
The world is awash in words. Words meant to inspire, encourage love, espouse hate. Words intended to inform or designed to deceive. Words unrestricted by paper shortages; digitally unlimited.
Bloggers number in the hundreds of millions. Social media allows us to reach out and touch others. How far our reach goes depends on whether or not what we have to say resonates for others and how good our marketing is.
I’ve joined that blogging world. Twice.
I started my first blog, Pursuing Podcasts, last year. It was about podcasts. About other peoples’ work and thoughts. It continues to exist, albeit lightly used.
My second blog, Walk the Goats, I started on March 1, 2018. This year. Fifteen days ago. Walk the Goats is about my thoughts, thoughts from my inner landscape.
I write about things Bubba and I talk about: relationship stuff; “divine” versus “relative” selves; internal “characters” who show up to deliver their lines and take their positions when they hear their cues. I write about things I think about and want to share, including observations on personal growth and life and aging and random other stuff.
I want to share my writing with Bubba. And what I want from him is supportive enthusiasm that I’m writing. I don’t want suggestions for how I might write something different or better.
It’s not because I think my work is brilliant and doesn’t need editing.
It’s because writing and sharing my work scares the living daylights out of me.
And in that place of fear, anything that discourages me feeds the fear. And stops the writing.
Which is why I’m looking for swords of light that encourage the what of what I’m doing–writing–rather than the skill with which I do it.
The thing is, when I share my writing with Bubba, I’m also sharing it with his mother, Jan.
Walk the Goats 