Last Updated On July 23, 2018

 

"These expensive, these is red bottoms, these is bloody shoes Hit the store, I can get 'em both, I don't wanna choose" -Cardi B

 

 

I NEED to miss my writing,
Like I NEED to miss my kids.
I don’t want to be without either of them all the time,
But periodically.
Turning it off, pausing, and turning it back on again-
Fixes most things.
For a break.
For a refresh.
To resonate in that space of *NOT*
And embrace a joyful return.
To grow in appreciation.
We all benefit from that, its good medicine.

So when I ask myself- “Why should I even bother to start when I am only going to be interrupted and have to stop?”
I remember the gift of stopping.
Many times stopping can be the best part,
Enabling me to infuse my writing with the immediacy and passion of having to refrain.

I pine.
I beg.
I dive deep and quick.
My lipstick gets messed.

Anticipation is a powerful force.
Anticipation heightens our experiencing
And sharpens our senses.
It is the loudest of silences.

Given the opportunity to tease
And tempt
And imagine
Without immediate consummation
Makes our brains go wild.

Instead of writing becoming another chore
Avoided
Put at the end of a long to-do list
Something to bitch about or
Resent my family for

It becomes a dessert.
A reward.
A sweet reunion.
What if writing were like my lover?

Instead of emerging from my office angry and deflated
For having to pause and give attention to others,
I may instead emerge flushed
And breathless
With secrets in my heart
And a song on my mind
Maybe I would perform my duties with lightness.
Perhaps giggling at the thought of getting caught
Writing.
Maybe I’ll still be revisiting those caresses
And whispers
On the page.

What if our trysts
With our writing
Informed our lives
Making us inspired, fulfilled beings
Whether we are writing or not writing.

I want to like who I am when I am interrupted.

I like to phase into “real” life
Still high and disheveled
From my own imaginings.
I like to greet my needy ones with
A wide and somewhat vacant smile,
Wet eyes,
And husky voice.

I like to listen more,
Hold more,
Breathe them in more,
With quiet knowing.
Having one foot still in the room with my lover.
Thus giving more room for them.
Not filling the space with my drama
And disappointment.

During this transition time
I am softer,
Gentler,
A little fuzzy around the edges.
I find myself kissing, smoothing hair, nodding, playing.
Doing physical things.
I’m not looking to be amusing,
Or trying to out-smart anyone,
Defenses are down.
I am maintaining the receptiveness and physicality
That I call upon when I write.
I am present AND dreamy.
I am available AND self-satisfied.

Since I have just opened myself for my writing,
Why not just remain open?
I just AM.
I am grateful.
I appreciate what I WAS doing
And I appreciate what I AM doing.
It doesn’t have to be a competition.

My expectations are dialed WAY back.
For my loved ones,
For my writing,
And even for myself.
I allow myself to actually enjoy writing.
And enjoy NOT writing.
I allow myself to enjoy my children,
And enjoy NOT being with them.
Because all of this is so very temporary,
Why not revel in its temporariness?
In the pull, the tease, the crave.

So when I hear that oven ding,
Or sense an escalating argument,
Or rise to address the dog losing its shit over a delivery person,
Or notice the clock drawing near to a pick up time
I…

I love it?
I have learned to love it?
I cross my legs and vow to hold onto the spirit
I rearrange my blouse
And get on with it.
###

Author Note: I recently read about an interview with a female author where she was asked (surprise, surprise) about how she manages to balance writing with motherhood. She gracefully acknowledged the struggle but declined to answer until dudes were also asked that question. It tickled me to think that whatever *answer* she could have offered about work/life balance, would NEVER have had the impact that her silence did. My friend Eliza VanCort did a great TedTalk about revolutionizing women’s speech and the power of silence, give it a watch: Women, Power, and Revolutionizing Speech.
So anyways, a long while ago I wrote this piece as a response to a submission request about work/life balance targeting women and I immediately scrapped it. I felt like it was too weird and not in keeping with the publication’s tone and… I felt a vague fatigue about it. The issue, the question, all of it. But strangely it kept coming back. I’ve shared it sketchy and unfinished with fellow writers and they encouraged me to follow through with it, that it offers a broader perspective or at least a somewhat refreshing one. So I tightened it up, pulled out the salience, and here it is. Take it or leave it. -N

 

Last Updated On July 23, 2018

 

"These expensive, these is red bottoms, these is bloody shoes Hit the store, I can get 'em both, I don't wanna choose" -Cardi B

 

I NEED to miss my writing,
Like I NEED to miss my kids.
I don’t want to be without either of them all the time,
But periodically.
Turning it off, pausing, and turning it back on again-
Fixes most things.
For a break.
For a refresh.
To resonate in that space of *NOT*
And embrace a joyful return.
To grow in appreciation.
We all benefit from that, its good medicine.

So when I ask myself- “Why should I even bother to start when I am only going to be interrupted and have to stop?”
I remember the gift of stopping.
Many times stopping can be the best part,
Enabling me to infuse my writing with the immediacy and passion of having to refrain.

I pine.
I beg.
I dive deep and quick.
My lipstick gets messed.

Anticipation is a powerful force.
Anticipation heightens our experiencing
And sharpens our senses.
It is the loudest of silences.

Given the opportunity to tease
And tempt
And imagine
Without immediate consummation
Makes our brains go wild.

Instead of writing becoming another chore
Avoided
Put at the end of a long to-do list
Something to bitch about or
Resent my family for

It becomes a dessert.
A reward.
A sweet reunion.
What if writing were like my lover?

Instead of emerging from my office angry and deflated
For having to pause and give attention to others,
I may instead emerge flushed
And breathless
With secrets in my heart
And a song on my mind
Maybe I would perform my duties with lightness.
Perhaps giggling at the thought of getting caught
Writing.
Maybe I’ll still be revisiting those caresses
And whispers
On the page.

What if our trysts
With our writing
Informed our lives
Making us inspired, fulfilled beings
Whether we are writing or not writing.

I want to like who I am when I am interrupted.

I like to phase into “real” life
Still high and disheveled
From my own imaginings.
I like to greet my needy ones with
A wide and somewhat vacant smile,
Wet eyes,
And husky voice.

I like to listen more,
Hold more,
Breathe them in more,
With quiet knowing.
Having one foot still in the room with my lover.
Thus giving more room for them.
Not filling the space with my drama
And disappointment.

During this transition time
I am softer,
Gentler,
A little fuzzy around the edges.
I find myself kissing, smoothing hair, nodding, playing.
Doing physical things.
I’m not looking to be amusing,
Or trying to out-smart anyone,
Defenses are down.
I am maintaining the receptiveness and physicality
That I call upon when I write.
I am present AND dreamy.
I am available AND self-satisfied.

Since I have just opened myself for my writing,
Why not just remain open?
I just AM.
I am grateful.
I appreciate what I WAS doing
And I appreciate what I AM doing.
It doesn’t have to be a competition.

My expectations are dialed WAY back.
For my loved ones,
For my writing,
And even for myself.
I allow myself to actually enjoy writing.
And enjoy NOT writing.
I allow myself to enjoy my children,
And enjoy NOT being with them.
Because all of this is so very temporary,
Why not revel in its temporariness?
In the pull, the tease, the crave.

So when I hear that oven ding,
Or sense an escalating argument,
Or rise to address the dog losing its shit over a delivery person,
Or notice the clock drawing near to a pick up time
I…

I love it?
I have learned to love it?
I cross my legs and vow to hold onto the spirit
I rearrange my blouse
And get on with it.
###

Author Note: I recently read about an interview with a female author where she was asked (surprise, surprise) about how she manages to balance writing with motherhood. She gracefully acknowledged the struggle but declined to answer until dudes were also asked that question. It tickled me to think that whatever *answer* she could have offered about work/life balance, would NEVER have had the impact that her silence did. My friend Eliza VanCort did a great TedTalk about revolutionizing women’s speech and the power of silence, give it a watch: Women, Power, and Revolutionizing Speech.
So anyways, a long while ago I wrote this piece as a response to a submission request about work/life balance targeting women and I immediately scrapped it. I felt like it was too weird and not in keeping with the publication’s tone and… I felt a vague fatigue about it. The issue, the question, all of it. But strangely it kept coming back. I’ve shared it sketchy and unfinished with fellow writers and they encouraged me to follow through with it, that it offers a broader perspective or at least a somewhat refreshing one. So I tightened it up, pulled out the salience, and here it is. Take it or leave it. -N

Last Updated On July 23, 2018

"These expensive, these is red bottoms, these is bloody shoes Hit the store, I can get 'em both, I don't wanna choose" -Cardi B

I NEED to miss my writing,
Like I NEED to miss my kids.
I don’t want to be without either of them all the time,
But periodically.
Turning it off, pausing, and turning it back on again-
Fixes most things.
For a break.
For a refresh.
To resonate in that space of *NOT*
And embrace a joyful return.
To grow in appreciation.
We all benefit from that, its good medicine.

So when I ask myself- “Why should I even bother to start when I am only going to be interrupted and have to stop?”
I remember the gift of stopping.
Many times stopping can be the best part,
Enabling me to infuse my writing with the immediacy and passion of having to refrain.

I pine.
I beg.
I dive deep and quick.
My lipstick gets messed.

Anticipation is a powerful force.
Anticipation heightens our experiencing
And sharpens our senses.
It is the loudest of silences.

Given the opportunity to tease
And tempt
And imagine
Without immediate consummation
Makes our brains go wild.

Instead of writing becoming another chore
Avoided
Put at the end of a long to-do list
Something to bitch about or
Resent my family for

It becomes a dessert.
A reward.
A sweet reunion.
What if writing were like my lover?

Instead of emerging from my office angry and deflated
For having to pause and give attention to others,
I may instead emerge flushed
And breathless
With secrets in my heart
And a song on my mind
Maybe I would perform my duties with lightness.
Perhaps giggling at the thought of getting caught
Writing.
Maybe I’ll still be revisiting those caresses
And whispers
On the page.

What if our trysts
With our writing
Informed our lives
Making us inspired, fulfilled beings
Whether we are writing or not writing.

I want to like who I am when I am interrupted.

I like to phase into “real” life
Still high and disheveled
From my own imaginings.
I like to greet my needy ones with
A wide and somewhat vacant smile,
Wet eyes,
And husky voice.

I like to listen more,
Hold more,
Breathe them in more,
With quiet knowing.
Having one foot still in the room with my lover.
Thus giving more room for them.
Not filling the space with my drama
And disappointment.

During this transition time
I am softer,
Gentler,
A little fuzzy around the edges.
I find myself kissing, smoothing hair, nodding, playing.
Doing physical things.
I’m not looking to be amusing,
Or trying to out-smart anyone,
Defenses are down.
I am maintaining the receptiveness and physicality
That I call upon when I write.
I am present AND dreamy.
I am available AND self-satisfied.

Since I have just opened myself for my writing,
Why not just remain open?
I just AM.
I am grateful.
I appreciate what I WAS doing
And I appreciate what I AM doing.
It doesn’t have to be a competition.

My expectations are dialed WAY back.
For my loved ones,
For my writing,
And even for myself.
I allow myself to actually enjoy writing.
And enjoy NOT writing.
I allow myself to enjoy my children,
And enjoy NOT being with them.
Because all of this is so very temporary,
Why not revel in its temporariness?
In the pull, the tease, the crave.

So when I hear that oven ding,
Or sense an escalating argument,
Or rise to address the dog losing its shit over a delivery person,
Or notice the clock drawing near to a pick up time
I…

I love it?
I have learned to love it?
I cross my legs and vow to hold onto the spirit
I rearrange my blouse
And get on with it.
###

Author Note: I recently read about an interview with a female author where she was asked (surprise, surprise) about how she manages to balance writing with motherhood. She gracefully acknowledged the struggle but declined to answer until dudes were also asked that question. It tickled me to think that whatever *answer* she could have offered about work/life balance, would NEVER have had the impact that her silence did. My friend Eliza VanCort did a great TedTalk about revolutionizing women’s speech and the power of silence, give it a watch: Women, Power, and Revolutionizing Speech.
So anyways, a long while ago I wrote this piece as a response to a submission request about work/life balance targeting women and I immediately scrapped it. I felt like it was too weird and not in keeping with the publication’s tone and… I felt a vague fatigue about it. The issue, the question, all of it. But strangely it kept coming back. I’ve shared it sketchy and unfinished with fellow writers and they encouraged me to follow through with it, that it offers a broader perspective or at least a somewhat refreshing one. So I tightened it up, pulled out the salience, and here it is. Take it or leave it. -N