Familiar feelings returned as my fingertips softly hovered. The keys before me, my mind engaged, I began the tap-tapping of letters and words.
On the most average of Mondays, slightly before midnight, I toyed with the idea of writing. My laptop was buried under only an inch of paperwork, junk mail and retirement account advertisements. (The entrance to the doorway marked “elderly” is defintely paved with ridiculous amounts of hard copy annuity glossy postcards, medicare/medicaid supplements and the rainbow of such). Why would I want to disturb that mountain? I could write on my iPad but I had not updated MSWord and accounts on it. I could write on my smart phone but I had reasoned that it did not feel so smart nor any fun at all.
Why write if it would not feel like writing?
I decided to go with my feet as I turned away, returning to my late night project of picking up clothes in the bathroom. As I walked by my laptop a second time, I reasoned that I should and could stuff those jeans, socks and sweatshirts into one more washer load.
At the third pass, I warmed up mushroom coffee to first check my calendar and online banking. But I also tricked myself into unearthing my laptop. It sat. It waited for me.
An hour and a half later I could stand the anticipation nor could I turn away. I was afraid to write but I missed it terribly. (Or did I miss writing terribly?! Or, missed my terrible writing?!) Writing made me think of writing a novel and I started to wonder about all sorts of peripheral, ridiculous notions such as a pen name. After ten minutes, I had startled myself at the pecularities of my procrastination. What weird things a mind can attach to!
I sat down with my coffee and laptop. How do I even access my domains and blogs? Again I got scared. My online work had been so critical to my creative life. I had written and posted to various degrees for years. I had taken photos and painted.
I had worked at my building.
For much of those years, my habit had been social media type posting for myself, for my company and for other companies. Tonight though, I sat tapping back into the years when I wrote. How do I even access those domains? To the ventured and seasoned online creator, I would imagine that difficulty would seem ridiculous. Remembering was slow but the logic of the domain provider and access was clear.
I just had to slow down.
And there I was, writing in what I would term to myself as my ‘old school’ methodology. I smiled to myself. A part of me is surprised I did not wait until I could get my hands on an old Royal typewriter!
The last time I formally posted was two years ago. Two years! My heart ached at the thought of the seasons within those years. The seasons of my life which further defined who I am and where I am. Hmm. Maybe not. Maybe I just wished those two years defined me.
But I have arrived at the age of sixty years. Sixty years. Me? Yes, Stephanie, sixty years. And there is no going back. That has been my lesson of sixty.
Oh dear, I have boatloads about which to write. Boatloads!
Please, I raise my cup of mushroom blend coffee to us all! May we all embark on a bit of a creative journey….
Lots of love and a kiss to boot,
Virtually, of course…
stephanie
Stephanie Springborn 