Suddenly I wiish I was a six year old without preconceived notions about the e-world, cyberspace, the inner life of the computer versus my brain. All the help in the world won't matter if the basics are missing. This effort, this exercise, feels like math did when geometry made no sense, but advanced algebra did, though I had no clue how. I'm still struggling to identify the reason that comments, which I know have been sent, don't appear.
If writing were this difficult, I'd never put pen to paper, and I suppose that for some, that's the simple truth. The thought gives me new perspective on not just why I write but how I do it. For the first time in my life I have the luxury of time. Time that gets away from me while I write. Time to put it in park and just mull. Time to leave my bed in the middle of the night to sit here in the glow of my computer screen and pour out the stuff held in my head unaware. Time to visit my essay classmates revealed in their efforts as dedicated women exercising their craft. Time to encourage someone else on the writing path. Time to think about how to say the thing I need to say, to tell my life in a way that resonates, to address those triumphs and tragedies that culminate in who I am and who I permit myself to be. Time, that thing I took for granted, wasted, railed against, used up, counted across years of motherhood, invested in my family, my hobbies, my work, my indulgences. And, know what? It does march on! Looking back, I hear its footsteps, see its footprints, measured then and hurrying now, but marching. Marching.
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