“I have always known that at last I would take this road, but yesterday I did not know that it would be today.” Narihara
I am having kind of an off day today. I certainly am not myself. In fact all week last week felt kind of odd to me. It was as if I was observing my own life pass by and I had no part or say in it. I am cranky because my writing corner is messy, my desk is cluttered with books and notebooks and I can’t find anything. I am cranky because I am exhausted. I’ve let myself forget my moments of solitude necessary to center myself. Instead I feel that I am trying to fill myself up with the wrong things.
There was a time in my life when I hungered for space and time to nurture my creativity. I remember being so organized and disciplined that I could take care of my children, my house and my job and pursue my dream even if it meant spending sleepless nights at my desk. I always thought that it was the right thing to do until I read what Toni Morrison had to say:
“We are traditionally rather proud of ourselves for having slipped creative work in there between the domestic chores and obligations. I’m not sure we deserve such big A-pluses for that.”
If only I knew then what I know now. I’ve been this way many times before. It’s not easy when I don’t have a specific place to go, somewhere to be every day. It’s not easy to feel that I ought to be doing something when there is nothing in the next twenty-four hours I have to look forward to.
“How can you know what road to take unless you know where you are going?” Dumas the Younger
The life I want is not the one I have chosen and made but the one I will be choosing and making. Life is always moving and it’s not that life is throwing something new in my face every time. It is the same wretched thing over and over again. When this happens week in and week out I know that I am not experiencing harmony in my daily life. I know that I am not participating in the process of living in the moment. I need to find my inner peace. I need to start again, begin at the beginning. I need to find something that sparks my imagination. I need to move on.
The Brontë sisters, Charlotte, Emily and Anne originally published their poems and novels under male pseudonyms: Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. George Eliot’s real name was Mary Ann Evans. She assumed a man’s pen name to publish her books Middlemarch, Silas Marner, The Mill On The Floss. They, like many contemporary female writers, did this in an age that discounted the genuine longings of a woman.
George Eliot Wrote:
“It seems to me we can never give up longing and wishing while we are thoroughly alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good and we must hunger after them.”