This is 40, Installment 3

Just. Say. No.

It's something I've learned can be SO freeing. Maybe it's a growing-old revelation. This fall I was working on finishing my novel and kept saying no to things. Things like my gingerbread house building party that we've thrown for the past 14 years. Things like turning down various Christmas invitations. Things like not going to my kids' hockey tournament in Buffalo (I know, so tempting) in order to write. Even things like going to see the Capitol Christmas tree and White House trains and trees that we've traditionally done. I said no. I don't HAVE to go to everything I'm invited to, even when I like the people who invite me! Even if we ALWAYS do it. Most people already know this, but it's been a little addictive for me to say no. Consider it.

I lived primarily in my head this fall and first part of winter, and I've enjoyed it. My inspiration to dive into writing again was fueled by a literary society of two other writing pals from college also working on novels. It is a virtual society, and we communicate via Google Docs and Marco Polo, which is an amazing app that everyone should have (unsponsored plug).

On the flip side, I said yes to something that we don't usually do, which was to visit the beach over Christmas/New Year's break. It was delightful and relaxing. Now I am in a mad dash to finish grading essays and plan the rest of second quarter. Unfortunately, all I could say to those essays was, "No, not yet." Now they're here and real and staring at me menacingly.

Here is a poem I wrote this fall about drifting away from writing over the past few years. I'm glad to be back. And if I say no to something, don't be offended. Just know that it's an addiction that I'm currently not seeking help for.

This is 40.

I Lost You

somewhere 

on the path

in the weeds

sidewalk cracks

playground mulch

silent desks

I’ll see you tomorrow though

I always say I always say

when the spirit prompts

when the wind blows tree leaves

sequins flipping in flight

but diapers

but dinner

but laundry

but dishes

but bathtime

but stories

but essays

but meetings

You’re in me but never

on the lines

white, barren, beautiful

infuriating

mocking

flying, flitting, dividing my 

sky separating my thoughts my

world shattering my air my breath

my dreams

You are loud as cat’s feet 

on pine needles

predictable as time

surprising as sunrise 

Always there

unwritten  

And now a couple beach pictures from the thing I said yes to this holiday season.