Too Tired to Write

Right now, I feel a little depressed. It's one of my few precious afternoons to write, however, I'm too tired to focus. 


First, I needed to take a shower, vacuum the floor, sort through old mail, and sit by the window with a cup of tea. Then, though still tired, I forced myself to move to my computer to either finish a blog post I started a couple weeks ago, or to start a new one. It depresses me when I leave a piece of writing hanging too long, it depresses me that I can't just whip out a post in one sitting. It depresses me when I go too many weeks without writing, for certainly there is no shortage of things to say. There's just too little time, this same old story. Too many missed opportunities to go write, because instead we are visiting friends one weekend, or instead, I decide I'd rather hang out with my husband and baby at home. To go to the cafe, sit and focus for two hours and pound something out takes discipline. I deserve a break. 


Only breaks don't feel so good in the long run, because breaks don't produce new writing. 


So, today, I finally hauled my ass over to my desk. My computer is working a lot faster these days, thanks to finally adding more memory and paying someone to clean it up for me, only now, I discovered that after the person cleaned out a bunch of cat hair from beneath the keys, the space bar is sticky and won't work unless I pound it with my thumb. Needless to say, this did not aid the process of sitting down to write, when my whole tired body and mind was already resistant. Instead, I decided it was way overdue that I go lay down on my bed and cry.


I'm surprised I haven't cried more as a new mom. I used to look forward to a good monthly cry-- or at least every few months. But interestingly, I've barely cried at all lately, and it's not for lack of surging hormones. I think I'm just too damn busy. At the end of the day, I'd rather sleep than dwell in my emotions. Or, I can't drink enough wine while breastfeeding to get me to that place that several glasses used to open up access to (cue dark, melancholy music, some Damien Jurado perhaps, or Bjork's Vespertine if I'm really feeling angsty.) In any case, I haven't been crying much lately. Perhaps it's because I'm so damn happy and content. Part of me is joking here, and part of me is completely serious. Living my daily life with Cedar, a part of me is wildly happy, in love, and content. Meanwhile, somewhere in my underbelly, the lover of solitude, wind, and aimless wandering seethes, plots, and rebels. She wants more time. Alone. To write. Or drink. And dance.


But anyway. So my computer wasn't allowing my words to flow, so I went to lie down and cry. Cried a little, felt a little better, and contemplated Plan B. I could go bring it back to the computer store and have them fix it right now, but use up the rest of my break from motherhood doing so. I could go pick up Cedar early and beg my mom to watch him again tomorrow, whereupon I could get a fresh start (and hopefully get more sleep tonight). Or, lightbulb flash, I could use my husband's laptop and just sit down and compose directly into this blog and hit publish, instant gratification. Even if I would not be writing about one of the topics I've been yearning to write about, at least I'd get something out there, not risk another week or two of cyberspace silence. 


So here I am. On a beautiful, sunny, early Spring day, sitting inside, in a silent home, listening to the wind blow the branches outside, blow the chimes from the North, as my fingers click the smooth keys. Sitting with wet hair, watching the time tick, always, measuring how much time I have left-- on my own, or before Cedar goes to sleep, or before he's bound to wake up again, which he still does, all night long.


I'm exhausted. Yet I've adapted. I get by on less sleep than I ever thought I could, and I think I'm doing pretty good, even finding time to read novels, email friends, pay bills. And yet, my brain is a little soft and fuzzy. I am not very articulate. I do not have any excess reserves of energy. I am multi-tasking all day long with a baby hanging from my body, constantly making lists and trying to get things done, trying to cross things off my list so I'll feel better about myself, my day, my life. So I can feel somewhat productive. 


And I am hungry. I have been deprived of cheese, coffee, garlic and tomatoes for too long. I want a prize for all my effort. I want to know that I'm making the right choices when it comes to feeding my baby solids. I want reassurance that it's okay that I haven't started giving him meat, and grains, and foods with lots of iron. Or that the benefits of going slow and being cautious with what and how I introduce foods to him, outweigh whatever vitamins he might be missing out on. I mean, he hardly looks malnourished-- that's what the naturopath said, too. And he's getting most everything he needs from my breastmilk, my breastmilk which I should be proud that I am still producing abundantly, my breastmilk which he still drinks hungrily every few hours each day. But still, you hear so much conflicting advice as a mother, and who has the time to do in-depth research? You grab at pieces of advice here and there, whatever sounds about right, and hope your intuition fills in for whatever gaps in knowledge you may have. You try not to worry too much about all the things you worry about. You know, all in all, you are doing a great job. You try to breathe and just flow with your days. Make your lists. Get around to things when you do. Some things might stay on your list for months, even years (like fixing my computer). But eventually, you do get around to almost everything. No one but you really knows this, so you must congratulate yourself, pat yourself on the back, cross them off with dark, decisive strokes. 


Anyway, where am I going with this? Nowhere, really. Is this a rant? Not really. Just a sigh. A deep sigh that says, I am not mentally equipped today to write about what I really want to write about, not with sensitive lyricism and wit. Nope. So I'll just go easy on myself by writing this, writing whatever stream of conscious blather comes to mind, at the same time that I'm not really going easy on myself at all, because I'm not entirely capable of that. I would only feel more depressed if I decided to crawl in bed for the duration of my precious time off, or sit in the sun, or god forbid, watch a movie. I do enough mindles sitting around all day with Cedar, granted, I know it's not the same as truly having a moment alone just to sit and breathe. But, I compromise. I give you this. I give myself this. This act of writing to soften the edges of the blues. This act of writing to sharpen the mush of isolation.

Birth Day

Today is my birthday. Happy Birthday to me. I sit in my bathrobe and check my email after writing in my journal and drinking coffee on the day-bed by the window. This is what I do most mornings, being a mostly-unemployed writer and all, but on this day, I remind myself that I needn't feel guilty for it, don't need to measure this day's success by how many things I check off my to-do list.

I feel better today than I did yesterday, I feel the love coming in, the calls from old friends, the one-liners on Facebook, the small ways we reach out to people and strive for connection each day. But I must admit, I've been feeling melancholy the last few days... mostly hormonal I suspect, and yet, what do hormones do but bring out to the surface what is already there? Latent sadness, depression when checking craigslist for jobs, feeling overwhelmed by the hugeness of my goals and the smallness of my accomplishments.

I used to always feel a certain melancholy on my birthday. I wanted to be honored and surrounded by my friends, and yet I also carried a certain heaviness, a desire to be alone, contemplative and silent. I wanted to throw parties and bring together the small scattered community that I knew, yet I also did not like being at the center of attention. I remember throwing a small party one year and not even telling people it was my birthday. In truth, I wanted the attention, but I feared opening myself to that wanting and then being disappointed.

Today, I mostly feel gratitude. Gratitude for the constants in my life, the deep souls that are with me, the support and the faith that people share with me, the knowing that I have made conscious choice after conscious choice that have led me here to this moment, and that I don't need to be anywhere else than where I am. I know my own challenges, goals, fears; I sit down each day to face them logically, calmly, as I cross things off a list, and then wind down at night to face them emotionally, passionately, drinking wine and listening to music, sometimes reading back on what I've started by day and editing from a deeper place that has no tolerance for half-truths or evasion.

The other night I had one of those moments of sheer gratitude, looking back and taking in all the work I've done, knowing I wouldn't have done it any other way, even if that means my resume reads as a series of one contract job to the next, trying to cover up all the gaps, and even if that means that I sometimes only feel qualified to write, or teach writing, or to help people go deeper into their stories and unmask the deepest intentions of their heart.

I guess what I want to say on this day, my birthday, my day of official of striving for no guilt or judgment for doing what I'm doing and being who I am, is to remember to honor yourself in this same way, every day. To remember that you are beautiful, and that all of us, no matter how we present ourselves or seem to be in life, are just trying to figure things out, trying to find love and happiness and balance, trying to figure out what is most important to us, how we can pay bills and feel safe and secure at the same time that we stay rooted in our deepest, wildest essence. That, my friends, is not an easy thing to do.

I wrote to myself this morning that I know when I am old I will look back on my life and shake my head and think, "Child, you worried too much." I need to remember that we don't ever finally arrive at that plateau we were always striving for, that THIS is it, and if we don't grasp it now, if we don't hold on and love and shine and laugh and celebrate our beauty and freedom now, we never will be satisfied. This is the place from which I want to live and love, this place of gratitude, vitality, deep breaths, and tears. Yes, tears. I welcome them when they come, a shedding of skins, a cyclical outpouring, releasing what has slowly risen day by day and now overflows at the surface. I am not afraid of tears-- yours or my own.

Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to me, happy birthday to you, may you walk this day with gentle acceptance, may you cradle your own heart in the palm of your hand, may you stroke your own hair with the same tenderness that you would a child, may you never forget how precious you are and how far, how far we have all come.