Write even a little bit, every day.
Only kind of kidding. There's been a lot going on. Last week I went on a writing retreat at a lake house belonging to a friend of a friend, which I wanted to write about sooner. I'm appreciative for how much I got done, and the chance to be quiet and not have to worry about going on to the next obligation. But I was surprised at how sort of paralyzed I felt by having all. that. time. Occasionally I actually wished there was something else I had to do. I think I got used to the time on the second day; I didn't feel so stifled by it. But it was odd to feel like the one thing I wanted more of... time... felt like such a burden at first.
On the morning of the last day I found out about the Colorado theater shootings and about the direct connection my husband's family has, and the weekend and this week so far have been full of helping make plans, getting ready, phone conversations, prayers. I didn't want to write about my retreat in the early days of that tragedy. Even though I'm not personally feeling the impact of grief, I love those who are, and I've lost patience with most anything that strikes me as petty. Andrew and I were talking about this yesterday, how things I would probably normally let slide provoke me to frustration and the urge to say something to bring perspective. Which feels like a different kind of burden. A meaningful one.