It has been a couple of days since I written anything down…and the thought of figuring out where to begin is a little bit suffocating. I think that is what happened when I fell silent for a period of time.
I was working in a job role and doing a lot of community-based organizing that required enormous amounts of communication, spoken and written, formal and informal…and I was trying to write a thesis…I burnt out for a bit…my writing faltered and my creativity faltered and I feel consumed by people…then my job changed and I stopped organizing and I got off of Facebook and stopped responding to most emails.
In my communicative digital existence, I dropped off the face of the earth.
I would sit down, here and there, and write a little . . . but, the emails from those months of relative quietude in the recording of words are stifled, choked…alluding to having a lot to say, but not being able to, and not much seeing the point of saying anything at all…and it really was a matter of not knowing where to start, where to pick up the thread, and – also – which small events warranted recollection, what was worth writing about when writing seemed like such a great effort, such a chore to string together letters, words.
The act of writing had lost its joyfulness for me, had lost its freedom.
It was no longer interesting.
I was no longer interesting.
What did it matter what I saw, what I thought, what I did or didn’t do in the course of a day?
It doesn’t matter, not really…and then, immediately, a knowing rises up in me. “It does so fucking matter, and don’t you pretend for an instant that it doesn’t.”
Which brings me to the question of why.
Why does it matter? Why do I keep coming back to this inclination to write, even after it went away for a while? Why did it come back?
I guess it started feeling fun again, to write and to notice things with a narrative mindset, to observe and participate in my life that way, suspended in awareness that everything is fleeting and therefore both stunningly poignant and utterly meaningless.
“Your lunch is hanging on the door knob. Bye, I love you.” Leaving for work on Tuesday morning, saying bye to my oldest child and being struck by the fact that, depending on the traffic, my last words to him might be something about his lunch, which he has lately been forgetting. I was amazed for a minute that I am alive.
…but, more than fun, it started to feel important again, inspecifically purposeful.
There are a lot of reasons I write these notes…so that I will remember and so that other people won’t forget if/when I cease to exist…and, also, I still sometimes realize that I might have a story to tell that is bigger than just me and my life, a story that might actually mean something, or do something.
I don’t know why I feel a rush of shame/embarrassment in stating that I think my story matters.
I don’t even know if it does matter, but I think that it might. I think most stories matter, but maybe some more than others, depending on what they (the stories) do out in the world. My story might not matter much, or it might be important.
Right now, outside of the context of my occupational role, my story isn’t doing much of anything other than churning around inside of me, occasionally leaking portions of itself in emails.