So now I can get back to writing. When I don’t write I feel restless and dissatisfied. There’s a vague awareness that I’m not doing something I should be doing. Maybe this is what they mean by wasting your gifts. Not that I’m any Jane Austen, but if I have any talents at all worth developing, it’s probably writing. So when I avoid it I feel untethered, drifting nowhere when I should be headed toward a destination. It nags at me.
When I do write, I feel good. The day is lighter and so is my mood. I feel I’m fulfilling my destiny, or at least slogging along the road toward it. Sort of like the pioneers heading west. There are distractions and obstacles along the way, Indians to fight off, food to hunt, sick children to tend, wagon wheels to repair. Still, the pioneer forges ahead, even if the vision ahead is as vague and misty as a distant mountain range. Even if they don’t make it to the land of their dreams and have to settle down somewhere along the way. Maybe just attempting the journey is the most important thing.