Seeking the value of writing again
It is not a mid-life crisis; that label is overused and under-defined (and statistically not common). What I find, however, is an emptiness dwelling in the mundane. My life is fine; in fact, it's great in all measurable aspects. Looking through journals from half a life ago, however, I realized what I long for. I long for that sense of urgent discovery, and for the poetic potential of thinking through writing. What happened in the last 22 years since I first began this journal? A lot. Life, when it happens as a career-based, family oriented, individual, is so full that the desire to write of potential ceases. It feels like there is no potential, or at least, no discovery. And in some regards this is correct: the more life lived, the less new, exciting, etc. Regrettably, because of how new some experiences (having kids) and how routine others (work, existence, consistency), the need to write, or the concept of discovery disappears, or is without the appropriate time and mindset in which to delve into writing. This needs to change. The value of writing in my life was part of my identity. The poetic lines that seemed to just tumble from my mind and through my fingers as a 19, 20, 21 year old, astound me. I want that back. I want to play with language in a permanent (or semi-permant) fashion again. I use language everyday, my thoughts are rich, but they are temporal by the nature of living. I can't recall them, I can't return to them, I find periphery satisfaction, but it's fleeting. Cut to the chase: I will try to force myself to set time aside to document my thoughts. Last night, I looked back at my first entries, as a 19 (almost 20) year-old sophomore in college. Naivety, sure; cringe-worthy self-focus, check; hope, dynamics, immersion in language and life; yes. I was also struck by the consistency of my person. While parts of young me make me shake my head now, others seem so fresh, so consistent...it made me feel astounded: that me was a life time ago, literally. 22 years ago (longer than I was alive at the time of writing). It's almost like reading the thoughts of my own child. Yet, while growing up, I want that vigor back again. It is weird to type "growing up". I'm almost 42. I've been in the same job for 18 years. I have an almost 14 year old and an almost 10 year old. I've been married for 17 years. I've lived in my house for 16. I lost my father 11 years ago. All events worthy of journal entry, but it was the gushing of thought and language in my past journals that caught my attention. I have been in a poetic drought for years now. How to keep life fresh and exciting in middle-age. That's the quandary. So, here's to a new attempt (yet again). On a side note, the typing does not keep up with the screen display (or vice versa); this makes me feel like I'm back on dial-up. Ha.