I’ve been sitting in front of a blinking cursor for most of the morning writing and trashing and then leaving to surf only to return to try, try again.
The one certainty to this mess of writers block has been the title.
It’s how I feel right about now; surrounded by cracked eggs, tip toeing over them, trying not to slip and fall.
My mother has taken the girls to the town parade and then to the grocery store and (if they are lucky) to the dollar store, too.
I should run. I should do something. Instead I sit here not quite able to do anything.
A decision has been made and my excitement over the future is quelled by the paralyzing nature of such a life turning event.
It’s not like saying that you are going to write a book or run a marathon.
A divorce doesn’t have a finish line (with kids involved) and it’s not something that can be held up with pride like one’s first published novel.
There’s no pride in seeing a divorce sitting upon your shelf.
There’s a strange thing that happens when you know the time has come. When the pain of the past is put away and the anger is gone.
As if fairy magic has poofed it away.
And my inner peace makes the decision less about flailing and proving my rightness.
I did the best I could and I gave it all I had, but it still might take a little time to sweep away the mess, to find my way around the broken shells and stickiness that have up to now caused me so much strife.
There’s beauty is knowing that underneath the goo is a shiny new floor (or in this case, a life).
A shining clean slate upon which new steps will be taken. Big leaps of faith. Less tip toeing. More stomping in the direction of an existence full of possibilities.
And there is this hope.
Hope and love.
Peace and acceptance.
Only now do I understand and for that I am more grateful than I am afraid.