I’ve been in a funk lately.

A combination of things have been wearing on me. Financial issues. Big decisions. Discouragement in just about every area, from mothering to marriage to writing to my spiritual life. My mother is in the care of hospice, hundreds of miles from my home. Nothing earth shattering. Just life. Or mid-life, as the case may be.

Not surprisingly, I process feelings through writing. Typically with a pen and a lined journal, in cursive. The journals stashed in our attic are teeming with emotions. Most of the near-daily entries spanning ages 12 through 26 will meet a fiery fate at some point in the future.

I let the journaling habit slide for years, as if the bliss of marriage would negate my need to work through my disappointments, anger, fear, or joy with a ball point pen.

Then, when the rosy glow of newlywed life wore off, as it inevitably does, I resumed writing in fits and starts over the last decade or so as the urge struck me. The result is a rather unbalanced look at my life from the inside, chronicling only my most extreme highs and lows and leaving wordless the even keel that marks most of my days. Continue reading →