Writing, I've Missed You.

I don't have time to write anymore. But I think about it quite often, and I still get out my personal journal whenever I can.
So today, the lazy Sunday afternoon that it is, I had prepared to take a nap, to try and catch up on the sleep I feel so deprived of during the week. I took my contacts out, took my jewelry off, my boots, and climbed into bed with Joey who is napping before he goes into work all night. But lying there all I could think about was if sleeping was really what I wanted to do with this time, this precious, rare time, when the house is quiet--mostly; both the boys are talking to themselves in their beds, supposed to be napping. (Does any mother not feel like their chest is going to explode from the anxiety of their children not sleeping when they are supposed to? I've learned this is not going away; I just recognize it now as something I cannot control, like, um, everything really, and then I pray for some grace in the moment to stop from morphing into complete lunatic and breath things out instead.)
Anyway, there I was lying in my bed, thinking about my poor, neglected blog, dreaming about writing in a quiet house with a cup of hot chai on a crisp, fall day...and I just had to throw the covers back and get out here to write. And it really is wonderful, transferring these thoughts onto the screen...if only Noah would shut up and my chest would release that feeling of wanting to explode.
I've often (OK, not often. Like one or two times) been asked if I have ever thought of writing a book, and the answer is yes, but then not long after is followed by why?
I've got my blog! And it's so easy to "publish" whenever I damn well please! And there is no accountability per say, nobody telling me it sucks and they won't publish it.
Isn't that the most pitiful thing you've ever heard? But it's true.
Through the blog I get to write, get to quench that need of mine to articulate in words what I see going on around me and inside of me. I think I've said it before and I will say it again: I feel the best when I am writing, and when I am writing well I may as well be flying. Writing well is like putting the perfect outfit together, like the feeling of summer turning to fall with a cup of chai in your hands, like the smell of gingerbread and cinnamon with a Christmas tree twinkling in the background. A good, honest sentence is like the love of your life kissing you outside in the cool night and your whole body being flooded with warmth. It's that good.
And I don't know when but at some point in the last recent years I came to think of myself as a writer, not because I have ever or will ever be published, but because I can't live without doing it. I take that back, I can, but writing helps me live everyday, ordinary life better, richer. When I write about my life, suddenly what is normally black and white turns to vivid colors, reds, oranges, yellows. Writing helps me stop and recognize little tid bits of meaning in all this non stop madness; of all the go go go, tying shoes, wiping bottoms, blow drying hair, applying eyeliner, and washing undies that is my life.
Writing can release the hold of the fingers of whatever is gripping my heart; be it control (like today), or fear of not being good enough (most days), or loneliness (Sundays through Thursdays, when Joey works).
As dumb as it sounds, writing is like a friend. A very close, intimate friend who lets me be as honest as I need to, helps me to sort out the things inside that feel like a tight twisted knot, and who never ever ever judges me.
I didn't necessarily plan on getting up just so I could come out here and write and entire blog on writing. If anything though it's a reminder to me how what precious thing it is to be able to have the time to write about life and how much I enjoy it.