As much as I love to write, for the past few months I have been having a hard time doing so. I haven’t even been able to respond to the comments of fellow bloggers, writers and readers. Every day early in the morning I promise myself to do just that. Every night I go to bed with a heavy heart knowing that I haven’t done what I promised myself to do. It’s not that I have a demanding job or occupation. I wish I did. No. It’s not that.
See it is the first time in my lifetime that I am alone in handling my finances and running my home. Even though I have always worked and taught full time and sometimes even held two jobs. But being born in the Middle East I have always had someone taking care of me. Someone like my father, my brother and afterwards my husband. We had an agreement, an unwritten and unspoken agreement between the two of us. While I work and manage the house and the kids, he works and takes care of the finances, rent, insurance, bills etc.
This agreement that we had I believe one way or another gave me the freedom to pursue my writing. Now I am left alone to do it all. And even though it’s been six months already since he’s been gone I am still shocked to receive a bill in the mail that I have to attend to. I say shocked because most of the time I don’t understand what I am paying for. I don’t even know whether I am doing the best or there are better ways to do things. It’s a nonstop learning process for me, not to mention that it’s so worrying and demanding of my attention and time.
And sometimes when I think that I have sorted out my problems and taken care of it all yet another surprise awaits me in the mail. Especially now that I am still unemployed. And I cannot write about that. And I find myself digressing from my calling, my vocation. On most days I want to scream and cry. And I don’t want to write about this, about my emotions, very subtle, very profound, and essential and completely unpredictable.
I do not want to write about the particular problems I am facing right now. Because I know and believe that this is just a phase in my life that was perhaps bound to happen some day. I would like to write about everything. I like to get mixed up in everything from the beautiful and happy to the ugly and sad. I do not like to only write about the ongoing nightmare of my loss, no matter how hard it is for me to bear. Writing is about all the emotions that are locked in my body waiting to be freed any time I hold my pen in my hand. That’s what writing is. To quote Marguerite Duras:
“It’s the pace of the written word passing through your body. Crossing it. That’s where one starts to talk about those emotions that are hard to say, that are so foreign, and yet they suddenly grab hold of you.”