How we grow

It's been about two and a half years since I last blogged. 

My intention back in 2020 was to revive my blog after a nearly 7-year hiatus. But it was 2020. Well, it wasn't JUST 2020 for me. It was 2020 + 2021 + 2022 . . . I had baby, my grandparents died, we bought a house, had to fix up said house, tried to get back into seminary, then got pregnant again (surprise!), Covid finally caught us (not fun while pregnant), had said baby, and so on. 2022 actually had more personal grief for us than 2020 with the unexpected and sometimes horrific deaths of young and old, family and friends, and also our beloved Haddie Cat a week before Christmas. 

I haven't written much for pleasure in the interim. I do write in my part-part-time day job and I have published three articles with Fathom Magazine since 2020 which is seriously a dream come true. Honestly, I do not know how parents with small children find time to write unless they have childcare or family nearby. I don't really have either, but I've been scribbling in the margins here and there.

So with the support of my little writer's group, love of Mr. Amazing Dude, and the wonderful encouragement of one of my seminary professors, I'm still making baby steps towards publication. 

Recently, however, I was feeling a little discouraged at the progress I've made. When I started this blog thirteen years ago, I envisioned publishing by age 35, certainly by 40. But as with starting a family, I'm a bit of a late bloomer. I assumed I'd be like my mom and have all my human kids by the time I was 30. I had my first at the terrific age of 34. And just had my last (baby 3) in my 42nd year. (I still had 3 kids, ironically, like my mom.) So far I've had no book babies--but I'm not counting myself out anytime soon.

I'm finding that mixing kids with well, anything is an adventure and results (and safety!) are not guaranteed. (It is giving me some interesting fodder for stories, however, . . .)

After dinner tonight, I took a few minutes (while my oldest was distracting the younger two kids) to peruse my blog--I haven't read some of the older posts in years. A lot of my earlier writing amused me with its youthfulness. I nearly deleted several posts, but after a second thought, opted to just pull a couple and leave the rest. Because, in all honesty, they reflect who I was in that moment in time. Before Covid. Before kids. Before the deaths of many beloveds. Before my miscarriage.

The world was shinier back then, I just didn't know it at the time. But here in the after there is still good. Even if the luster of life has dulled a little, I'm learning to polish it with the laughter of my children, the contentedness of a long-haul marriage and long-time friendships, and the satisfaction of making progress--no matter how small--on my novels.

As silly as some of my older posts are, I'm glad to have them. And I'll keep them. Because they are me, and they remind me that I can grow. It just takes time.

Photo by Sandra Grünewald on Unsplash