Processing (an excerpt from my journal)

The writing life. My dream life. Innocence lost. Overwhelm.

Just not sure where to start. How to unravelthis. Where I am. I am just sitting here. In it.

I can't drink my myself out of this. I can't eat my way out of it. I can't shop my way out of this. Sleep might help. No e-course will hold the solution. No book will have the answers. No dress, outfit, pair of boots, gloves/hat/scarf/shiny accessory will solve the problem.

There's no problem to be solved. I do not have a problem. I am not the problem.

Nothing needs fixing.

This is my life and I am in the midst of it.

I imagined it would feel different to this. I thought there would be more of a sense of "I've arrived!" or "I feel free at last!" or "Finally, this is bliss!". Instead there's a lot of "This feels hard" and "I just don't want to do this today" and "I'm scared" and a helluva lot of "I'm tired". And, sometimes, a tiny bit of "This is boring".

And a sense of missing the old days where it was all new and it was all open to me and I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing, what my path was. Oh! How I was in a hurry, giving myself so much grief for not yet knowing my purpose.

Now I see that it all unfolded exactly as it was meant to and there was a delicious sense of openness and wonder to that time where now there is focus. The path is clear and no one/thing can help me but me. I just need to do it. I AM DOING IT.

This realisation leaves me feeling alone and more than a little afraid... but... every now and again I get a glimpse of strength. Of tenacity. Of hope. Of faith.

Trying to conceive -- be it a story or an actual new life, let alone both -- is harrowing at the best of times. I'm not sure that this is the best of times. But this I do know: I am doing my best. Even though my best looks grouchy and unglamorous and horribly uneven and sometimes ungrateful.

My best it is.

And it's all I've got.