I must admit that I need to write more often. As a teenager, I found writing to be a therapeutic respite from my raging hormones. But long have the days past when I had an excessive amount of free time within my grasp. As somebody who is nearing the glorious age of three tens, I struggle to keep a routine between teaching, mothering, daughtering, friending, businessing. It’s an intense battle of misappropriation of priorities in which writing has been pushed back to the lowest of echelons.
But now, I suddenly find myself wanting, needing a daily routine for my sanity. Perhaps now I can devote more time to meaningful monologue in my blog. Perhaps I can even “pencil it” into my daily schedule.
I have a raging fire in my heart and a predominantly right brain oozing with passionate ideas for idyllic living. And yet somehow I am lost in my own habitual patterns of procrastination and borderline desperation. I am happy, I am moving, but I am utterly lost. And it is my pleasure continue finding my way back to myself.
