My beautiful children at Hanukkah 2016
The election truly crushed my spirit, and I had pretty much given up on writing my blog. I just had no enthusiasm for it. Two things happened recently to change that. The first was that I sent a few posts to a friend, and in the re-reading, realized I missed the writing. The second was this post by my friend Lisa. It wasn’t so much her very amusing post as the comments afterward that inspired me. Yes, I really did miss writing about my slice of life experiences. So I was thinking this morning, as I was walking Buttercup, that it was time to start writing again. That it is cathartic, that the small joys that bring happiness to my own life (and the travails as well) might as well be shared in this time of, well…
I never thought of myself as someone who ran away from problems (except maybe my looming divorce for the first 9 years), but since last November, I have truly become an ostrich. And I have to say, it has been very therapeutic. I never listen to the news (and although I miss NPR, I can’t afford the risk of a news break); I don’t read the email alerts that come into my inbox if they seem even remotely related to Washington DC; I cancelled my newspapers; and in my beloved The Week, I go straight to “It wasn’t all bad.”
Yes, this is probably immature, but it is allowing me to focus on my own ups and downs. On the things I’m responsible for. On the things I am grateful for. On the things that are most important–some things which I have some control over, and some which I have none, but they are my things, nonetheless. As Lisa points out, writing about the little stories is liberating. And I have plenty of those.