My Life: Finding My Words

It feels like my words have dried up.
Not the ones I write for my characters.
They have finally woke again.
They'd been silent for so long, I welcomed them back.
And my time spent writing turned to pages of fantasy.
And yes, I might have found myself writing romance.
I wouldn't admit it before,
but I have to now.
I like a good romance.

But my other words,
the ones I use here,
the ones I use to explore my life and understand me,
they shriveled up and stopped.
I throw my hands up and sigh.
I'm too tired
and nothing I think to say here matters that much.
Who wants to hear about moving bedrooms,
being up all night with babies,
cleaning the house,
or the weird obsession I've developed for shirt dresses
(none of which are ever long enough for me . . .)?

But then I remember that blog I follow avidly
and it's all about babies
and decorating
and loving life
and enjoying life.

And maybe even sometimes about dresses.

Because that's what life is.
It's one day and another day
and not so much fantasy romance,
but a tired husband who's been gone all Sunday
and several nights during the week
while still working all day,
just to make ends meet
and to serve a God we both love.
It's the baby who wakes every two hours,
but smiles and makes everything right again.

It's the neighbor who lost her job and started walking at the park,
just when I got winter depressed and started walking too.
It's how we now walk together every morning.
And I tell her about being up all night.
And she tells me about getting back her job.
And my son is brave and actually pets her dog.
And then waits every day for her to come so he can pet it again.

Life is reading a book my mom gave me fifteen years ago
to my son,
and crying at the same places she did,
and laughing at myself and telling my son to ignore me.
I'm just like her.
But I don't mind.

Life is being too tired or busy with baby
to say anything in Relief Society anymore,
but still going.
Life is the sisters who rescued me that night at
the Relief Society birthday party
when they held my baby and she didn't cry.
I didn't even know I needed rescuing until they came.

And that is life
and why I write here
and why I read what others write.
Because life is good
and bad
and sentimental
and somehow bittersweet and beautiful.
Life is a story written by God.
And my words are traces of living.