Just write, she says, but I don’t know what to say. I open up this laptop and the words just kind of fizzle.
I’m pretty sure they were there not too long ago.
I don’t know what to say when the paper and the binders and the school books and the library books and a wet washcloth– really?– and all the shoes are jumbled all over the floor instead of tidy on the shelf. I should have had them clean up before I sent them to their rooms for a quiet hour.
I really just wanted them to go away for a bit. So we skipped the cleaning up stage.
I don’t know what to say with the dishwasher sloshing away in the kitchen. It’s so loud. Why is it so loud? I can’t hear myself think over it. I feel kind of broken today.
I haven’t painted my toenails since before the fourth of July, and they mock me over the top of my screen with their ugly unpainted yuckness. How can I know what to say when my toenails look like that?
It’s not that I have nothing to say. You should know that. It’s that there’s too much squished in there, all roiling close to the surface, and when I try to let it out a little at a time it gets all jumbled up into a mess of homeschooling and cute things my kids did and why does the boys bathroom smell so bad and seriously? the toenails? and life and future and I made this delicious recipe and I need to print some pictures and I sometimes wonder if I really understand grace and well, who wants to read a stew of that?
Just write, she says. I don’t know what to say. It seems like it’s either nothing or everything.
Usually it ends up being nothing until everything settles and I can find the something that floats to the top again.
Just write, she says.
So I do.