Rusty

As most Mamas can attest, trying to find time to do anything but the necessities is tough. Putting out fires (real and metaphorical) consume much of my day; kids needing me for stuff takes up the rest. What about time for things like trying on shoes or soaking in the tub or travel or (gasp!) writing?

All of these activities are soul-soothers for me. I’m now brave enough most days to call myself a writer. After my book was finished (insert shameless plug here: My Pink Champagne Life is available at http://www.amazon.com and http://www.barnesandnoble.com), I just stopped writing.

Why did I stop?

I can blame it on the busyness and the business of raising four kids easily enough. And I work from home so there’s that. And I really like Mr. Wonderful so I enjoy spending copious amounts of time with him, even if we can’t finish a dang sentence most of the time. 

Sidebar: does anyone else ever text their spouse or significant other from inside the house? Yeah, me neither.

So there’s all this clutter piling up in my house and my soul and my mind and writing is usually the only way I can get rid of the soul and mind junk.

The house is a whole other story.

I’m feeling a bit rusty as I type away on this blog I started like, 10 minutes ago. It doesn’t feel like it has before: like a warm blanket just taken out of the dryer or my favorite pair of broken-in pink cowgirl boots or the Christmas movie Mr. Wonderful and I always make time to watch during the holidays.

Right now writing feels more like wearing tight pants, the ones I had to wear after I had the babies when maternity pants were too big and my regular pants were too small and I threw daily tantrums from inside my closet when I was supposed to be getting dressed. It’s just uncomfortable. Clausterphobic. And some other word that I can’t think of to go here because, like I said, I’m rusty.

But I’m going keep writing my words down. At least it will help clear my mind. It needs a good scrubbing too. 

And my soul. I get really rusty at times when I haven’t spent enough time alone with God. When all I’ve managed is a quick “Bless this food” or “Bless her heart” I start to feel all dank inside. Dark. Like the light is dimming.

And I don’t like that.

Somehow in the chaos of my world and my house and my children I’m supposed to find time to spend in communion with God and with myself. And then write from the overflow of that. 

If I’m being honest (which I’m very likely to do as I’m an over-sharer), adding in Mr. Wonderful’s PTSD makes the chaos even more chaos-y. We like to call this souvenir from his military service overseas Mad Cow. Because sometimes you just have to laugh.

So I laugh. And I write.

And I’m grateful for anyone who takes the time to read my words or comment on them. That means so much to someone trying to shake the dust off. Get better. Write another book. Think a thought all the way to completion like I used to do pre-kids. What a luxury that was! I had no idea.

I write because I have to, I guess. Because I’m called to. Because somewhere inside an imperfect, slightly neurotic artsy fartsy mess is a soul that longs to commune with her maker through words.

So even though I’m rusty I’m writing. And I’m listening. And I’m working towards keeping my light shining. With each post and page I’m coming closer to where I really want to be.

Copyright Meredith Shafer 2015

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