It has been literally three months since I’ve visited this space. Every once in a while I will think about writing something, then quickly dismiss the idea as too much work.
This summer was saturated with busyness. We’ve had weekly allergy shots, baseball and softball nearly every day until mid-July, gardening, misc. everyday household nonsense. There was way too much time spent away from the farm. Which drains me. My voice as a writer has dried up. Gone.
I have had NOTHING to say. Zip. Nada.
So, I didn’t fight it. I’ve been silent for the last three months. Really for the last year or two since leaving the newspaper. Now as I sit here and try to squeeze (painfully) a few drips of words I wonder if I really “am a writer” or if all the desires I had back then was because of the atmosphere I was in.
What makes a writer a writer, anyway?
My former pastor’s wife used to call me a wordsmith and I, honestly, loved that! Seemed so fresh. So real. So different. So true. But now I just feel like a middle-aged housewife with a mediocre, uncared-for blog. I’ve even thought of getting rid of the space altogether to alleviate the occasional guilt I suffer for neglecting it.
But this morning as I left the silence of my air-conditioned and still-sleeping household I was bombarded. My goal was to find some space in my brain, in my thoughts, in my soul by relaxing in the cool morning air. But peace alluded me. Outside was louder than inside. The summer serenade of cicadas or katydids or crickets or frogs — a giant orchestra of critters — filled the space between my ears and the sky. It was deafening.
I couldn’t even hear myself think. At first it was maddening. But I kept swinging.
Eventually the summer serenade created a cocoon where I couldn’t even hear my own thoughts if I wanted to. I noticed there was a gentle breeze. And my eyes were opened to my surroundings. The leaves on one of trees were extremely narrow compared to other oaks I’ve seen. There were spider-web draped between the eaves and pillars on the porch. Chickens scratched the grass and gurgled. I could make out the sounds of the pigs in the pasture to my left communicating to each other and then foraging for their breakfast. Ordinary.
Then it hit me.
I will always (at least until I’m old) be too busy. I will always be gone too much. There will always be too much noise in my world (even without Facebook, life is LOUD!). Noise. Busyness. That’s not the point.
Focus is. Dwelling on the ordinary is. Living in the moment is. That is the point. Or points.
Easier said than done.
But I think this lesson has to do with this space. This blog. Me.
It will be whatever it is.
The feelings that I’ve lost my voice are an illusion. I’ve convinced myself (somehow) that I have nothing to say, which is sometimes true, I suppose. But If I look back honestly there were times I kept quiet because I told myself I had nothing worthy or at least worth your time to read.
I need to get over that.
Some may like what I write while most may not. I need not care.
Writing has always been therapeutic to me. When death occurs I almost always process my emotions through writing. And crying. Mostly simultaneously.
My knee-jerk reaction to life in turmoil is to write.
THAT is what makes me a wordsmith. Not how many blog posts I write.
There will be dry spells.
Hopefully there will be times when I feel like speaking again. Maybe tomorrow or next week or next year.
Until then, happy summer to you!
Categories: Life on the farm
My name is Ginia Oehlschlager and I'm a small-town gal from Missouri. Join me as I document my crazy life on the farm with my husband and four kids. I'm always looking for frugal, simple ways to live the life God set before me. Where faith, family and fun come together on the farm.