On writing, or not

It seems I find myself here, every few months or so, apologizing (mostly to myself) for not writing.

But, this time I have some really good excuses. (See photo.)

Have you ever heard that old, cheesy country song, "I was too busy being in love"? The basic premise is that this country crooner could have written plays better than Shakespeare, a bestselling love story, or a romantic song that would drive young lovers crazy, but he was too preoccupied living the love story to take the time to write it down.

I think of this old song when a spark of an idea comes to mind, and I plan to jot down a few lines, grab my computer or journal, but then on the way to grab a pen, I notice how embarrassingly long my son's toenails have become, or that I left the wet clothes in the washing machine overnight (again). And then, on the way to the wash room, I stop to unload the dishwasher because I notice the sink is overflowing, and my two year-old decides to take out all the pots and pans and create a one-man band. And so, it's easy to forget an idea, or even an intention. It's a love story I'm forgetting to record, but not the kind most might dream about.

(True story: While writing the above paragraph my sons started fighting over the one remaining toy train that does not have dead batteries, and in order to put a swift end to the conflict, I went in search of a new battery for another train, which involved stealing batteries from a flashlight because it seems I'm always out of batteries, finding a screwdriver to open the train with, and then discovering the train seems to be permanently injured, which ensued in more bickering, a time-out for throwing a train at a brother, and then momma getting down on the floor to demonstrate how to share...all while experiencing a wave of nausea from my current pregnancy, and fighting the urge to just lie down for a few minutes.)

Yet, when I carve out the time to write, I'm always glad I do. And it's because writing for me is a communal thing -- like reading an author whose words make you feel like you just shared a chat over a cup of coffee. I always find myself wanting to be friends with the authors with whose words I relate so personally. I want to say, "Me too! How did you know?"

I love what Anne Lamott, my favorite author, says in her book Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. "Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again. It's like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can't stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship."

I heard a great sermon on Sunday about how there really is no such thing as an individual Christian -- this journey was never intended, never designed to be walked alone. For me, part of this community are the friends -- and authors who feel like friends -- who share the words and experiences that unite us. Being a mom, a teacher, and a follower of Christ is not quite so daunting when you discover others experience the same frustrations, worries, anxieties, joys, and revelations.

So, here's to writing and the words that are reminders of God's grace -- and to being more intentional in giving ourselves the gift of time to read and record them.

P.S. Small victory for me: The time to write this was taken despite a half-unloaded dishwasher, wet clothes in the washing machine, children still in their pajamas, and popsicles spilled on the floor.