At the risk of sounding completely immodest, I believe I sometimes make blogging look easy. With the exception of some recent and warranted hiccups, I have blogged at least three times a week for over a year and a half. And these blog posts were never afterthoughts. They were never forced. Each post was polished for up to two to three hours. Often more.
It was never easy. However, the inspiration always was.
I wrote like a well-oiled machine, without stopping, without getting backed up, without losing steam.
All of life’s shake-ups, and there were plenty of those, never stopped my consistent blogging. If anything, they only added fuel to the fire and gave me not only something to write about, but something I needed to write about in order to effectively process my emotions. Or at least get a head start or a light in the murky fog. Some of my favorite blog posts were written under extreme sadness. And some were written under extreme happiness. Emotions are needed for the best of the best.
Which is why I think that lately, blogging has been a bit of a struggle for maybe the first time. And there are plenty of physical reasons and excuses – exhaustion, stress, adjustment. And really, you might not even notice the change! And as much as I want you not to notice, I almost hope some or all of you do notice even a slight change or hiccup. I certainly do.
I think it’s because I haven’t really been feeling lately. Not as much as I am capable of. The slight numbness is steady during the day. It slips through the cracks every night. Like the night I kind of cried watching that “Don’t Stop” Lowe’s commercial.
It’s the way he patiently taps her on the shoulder and graciously asks her to dance at the end. It gets me.
And it’s the nights that I fall asleep or zone out early and Cassidy puts Scarlet to bed. And I hear her cry out for me but we don’t often interrupt each other’s bedtime routines unless there’s an extreme reason. And I just miss her.
I think of who she got during the day – the slightly watered down, numbed version of myself. And then it’s night and it’s too late and I feel alive again and in full, vivid color and I just want to wake her up and say, “Hey, it’s me. Me.”
Not laying in bed all day. Not skipping showers or meals. Certainly not skipping her baths or meals! Not even really noticeable to the untrained eye. But I know and I think she does too. When my parents were moving to their current house, a friend came to help. She said she was in the professional moving business and that she offered both actual packing/boxing help as well as emotional support. She said that grown men have often cried in her arms. She said that moving is hard for everyone.
And I suppose, my survival instinct/coping mechanism was to be a bit zombiefied for a week or so. It’s neither right nor wrong. It’s just…Tamara. And I first felt it lifting; I first felt the thaw on those mild days in which we sat in the grass together and played with leaves. Our “test” drives to the elementary school, only two miles away. Our trips to the local farm. Each click of my camera in our new yard. The fact that I wrote this in my head the other night while sleeping and I hadn’t been writing things in my head at night in ages. And it stayed with me until I finally got the chance to get it down here.
I’m not someone who goes with the flow and adjusts instantly. I’m not sure I want to be. My eventual embrace of my new life has been taking time but it’s unfolding. Slow and steady. As long as I find my way back here, each time, that means I’m ok.
Look for me here. Either right on time or late to the game, you’ll always find me eventually.