Time Confetti

I’m returning back to book four after a month of jumping in and out and frankly, even though I wrote it, it’s like I’m picking up a half finished novel that I set down sometime last year. As a parent/author/friend/wife/homeowner, my life these last few months has been an endless stream of fifteen minute increments punctuated by interruptions. Not just the kids, either. The dogs, a delivery, a new neighbor coming to say hi. None of it’s bad, but it’s also not conducive to a plot that makes any sense.

A friend of mine calls it “time confetti”. Lots of time, as long as you don’t mind it being broken up into a thousand little pieces. I call it the creativity killer. Just enough time to feel like I should write something, but not enough to immerse myself in the task. And definitely not enough to do it well.

Some days I wish that I could put myself in a little bubble, one where there are no garbage trucks making a racket or cats helpfully coughing up a hairball at my feet. And still, the vibrancy that surrounds me is what keeps me sane. Because too many hours inside this head of mine and I realize that I am terrible, everything I write is terrible and do I even know how to make a grammatically correct sentence anymore? It’s like when you say the word “foot” too many times and it feels like it’s not a word anymore. Except with my entire identity.

I guess some people, when left alone in their own head, come to a grand sense of self-importance. Absent external feedback, they come to believe that only they know how life, the universe and everything works. And the outside world acts as a humbling influence, reminding them that they are but a small part of an expansive universe, that in the end, doesn’t particularly notice them or their grand ideas. So, I guess the cat puke is pretty important to bring them back down to earth.

Me, on the other hand, I need reminding of how important and essential I am. There have been a million writers, poets and artists who could outshine my little flame any day of the week, But there’ s only one person here to hug my hurt child, reach out to my lonely friend, and yes, clean up the cat puke. The words I put on the page are important, but my identity doesn’t sit in those words. I am the sum total of all the things I do, both grand and mundane.

I’ve spent a summer in the mundane. In a thousand small moments. And now that there is time, I feel my soul expanding to fill it, stretching out like a cat in the sun. Basking the in luxury of both beginning and finishing my thoughts. The luxury of writing something, and then staring out the window, and then rewriting it, all in one go!

But don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll still be cleaning up a hairball at some point today.