February 5

The sun is shining today, dipping in and out of clouds. The world is still blanketed in snow from three days ago, but it’s slowly melting. Everything dripping. The driveway is clear, but the sidewalks are not, and I’d love to take a walk through town today. But the untouched snow would hit me mid-calf, so I can’t make the trek and I refuse to walk in the road.

Adam took the car and Lily to the science museum today; the other car is getting an oil change. So, I am home alone and car-less, which is fine because all week I’ve wanted a few hours to write and today I have them. I start by writing for ten minutes, then find myself doing the equivalent of running errands online, taking care of things that need to be taken care of and ignoring the thing I so much wanted to do: write.

I could write about why this is, why I choose to putter around instead of putting words on the page. The biggest reason would be that I rarely get time alone—truly alone—anymore and the freedom is intoxicating. I think of things I can do: watch a movie, lie on the couch, drink a beer at noon. I can wander from room to room and listen to the silence and all the things I never stop to pay attention to anymore. A truck drives by and I run to the window to take a peek. I hear an icicle unhook from the gutter and plummet to the ground.

I stand in the sunshine and remember to be grateful for this. But also, for writing, which brings me so much life. When the question comes up, even in my own head, about why I write at all, it all comes down to this: it gives me life. Maybe I don’t write anything of any importance. Maybe it’s all a bunch of jibberish. Maybe, once in a while, what I write means something, something that reminds me of who I am.

No matter. When I walk away from the computer refreshed, it wasn’t wasted time. When I sit and think things out and commit words to the page, it’s never wasted. If it’s a poem or an essay or simply a few sentences, I am reminded that when words have their way with me, I am most myself.

Putting it on the page makes room for more.

It’s the belief that this is enough, that I am enough, that I don’t have to perform or play any games and can simply be myself—that’s what drives me to write. It’s an impulse, a desire. Full of life and magic and wonder. That’s the kind of life I want: one full of magic and wonder, one that makes me feel fully engaged in the world.