It just dawned on me. Those of you following this blog might want to continue doing something similar–like, say, following my new blog. Because this place will be a ghost town, soon.
My new website (yes, yes, the one I mentioned before) ALSO has a blog. You can subscribe to it even if you don’t feel like being a part of my newsletter.
[The newsletter will prob only go out once a month. I’ll post more often on the blog.]
If, indeed, a blog is what you’re interested in, head on over , click on the “posts” page and subscribe.
I’ll be writing about, oh, everything. Everything in the world.
We have family staying with us for several days. There are sisters and kids everywhere, lots of goodness and extra pairs of shoes by the back door. Since I’ve been out of sync with my routines for weeks now, I’m tempted to get antsy when I think of the days ahead, though I love each person under my roof.
I’m tempted, I say, but I’m determined not to give in to the feeling. Because I’m understanding, more and more, that life is just a handful of breaths–and that God and people are the only real things when it all comes down.
Routines should serve us and not the other way around. So the thing I’m going to do this week, if I don’t do anything else, is to look my people in the eye. I’m going to be here, listening and remembering, not writing my novel in my mind, or grumping about the watercolor days.
I will stay awake.
It’s not OK not to try. This is what I tell my kids when they’re confronted with a task they believe is too difficult for them. But how many times do I avoid doing something hard because I’m afraid of failure? Or, once I’ve started the hard thing, how often do I get dangerously close to quitting when I bump up against a proverbial brick wall?
Too often, if I’m honest.
I’m working on a second novel. I’m still in the beginning stages, and already I’ve hit snags that leave me perplexed and discouraged. I knew this would happen before I ever started (it’s the nature of the beast), but the resulting feelings well up in me just the same: I want to bail on this project.
This realization is discouraging to me. Why am I still struggling to stick things out, to keep going, to silence the voices of opposition after all this time? Why am I tempted to not try, or worse, to try and then to give up?
I don’t know. I hope that, in time, I’ll grow up and leave behind the temptation to quit on hard things.
But what if I don’t?
If I don’t, the solution to the problem is the same–for my kids and for myself: keep going anyway. If a thing is worth it, if, in the quietude of saner moments, we’ve decided that it’s of real value, then it must be attempted.
It’s summer. Oh, how I’ve wanted it. We’ve only just declared ourselves done with school because we were sort-of waiting for Daddy to get done (he’s a teacher). Now he is and we’re finished with our school year. We’re so, so finished.
The kids swim every, single day even though it’s been unseasonably cool for June around here. I sit by the pool and write or read and the kids splash, dipping into the ice water and emerging with the shakes. Pure happiness.
I’ll be popping in here about once a week or so throughout the next two months. I can’t promise when, exactly. If you want to keep up with new posts and haven’t already you can follow this blog via email (see the sidebar). Or not. Whatevs.
Part of the reason I won’t be blogging a ton in the months of June and July is that I’m editing my book, taking it through its painful second draft. This is sucking the life out of me but also proving to be highly educational. (I am stretching, people, and if you could just see my mental stretch marks you’d think the ones on my stomach were nothing at all). In September the book goes out of my hands and into those of an editor. This is terrifying.
So, there’s that. And there’s the fact that I write a lot about motherhood and home education here and, the truth is, right now I’m trying not to think about school much at all. I mean, I’m a nerd at heart, ok? But I just got done sitting through part of a home educator’s conference and my friends were there and there was coffee. Everything about it was supposed to be ‘just my thing.’ But I fidgeted like a toddler during a sermon, and my brain was so far away from anything that was actually happening that I knew. I knew.