I'd like to write, and yet I don't.
Fear of saying the wrong thing or not saying it as well as someone else or becoming too out of practice or thinking myself a fraud all top the list of reasons I don't write.
And yet, it's just dawned on me that writing, for me, barely happens in the stringing together of some words in the semblance of some eloquence.
It's more in the noticing. The being present.
Noticing how sometimes when I blink, my eyes seem to feel as if they're in slow motion, and when they open again the world appears softer and dreamier and less harsh.
Noticing how the hum of the dishwasher or the whir of the air conditioning unit or the shower running are really some of the most peaceful sounds in the world.
Noticing how I move about the house, sometimes slowly and with purpose, other times with frenetic anxiety.
Noticing how tears stream down cheeks and noses and mouths, and feeling an overwhelming sense of protection and love for the one crying.
Noticing how quick young people are to give up their bus seats to the older man with all his possessions in the cart or the frantic mother with the baby.
Noticing how the dog runs through the raindrops across the field, at my side, as we each try to escape the storm.
Noticing the deep, full sensation of delicious inspiration welling up inside.
Noticing the shadows on the wall from the afternoon sun, as the plants dance in the breeze of the fan and their shadows move wildly.
Maybe this is all writing is, then -- the noticing and documenting and processing and forming.
Slowly, carefully, with precision.
Or haphazardly, emotionally, with passion.
I've got some writing to do.