I can't write

a list of excuses

I can’t write¹, because I used up nap time playing Mendelssohn. I was just going to take a picture of the music, but then I couldn’t resist. The instrument under my chin felt like a long lost limb, foreign, but familiar. My ear still heard what my fingers fumbled. Maybe none of it’s as forgotten as I think. If concertos are encoded in my body, what other stories do I know that I never tell? 

I can’t write because even though a million sentences run through my head during the day, they’ve somehow managed to take flight by the time I sit down at the end of the day. I wonder if I’ll ever write an essay as brilliant as the ones I compose while washing my hair. I’ve started setting a timer, because those shower essays are making me late everywhere I go.

I can’t write because I got a message asking “Is later okay, or do you need me home now.” And I said, “Have fun!”, because marriage is like that sometimes.

I can’t write, because songs needed to be sung and stories needed to be read. Teeth needed brushing, and I got called downstairs to pray the bad dreams away. 

I can’t write because the crumbs kept sticking to my socks and I had to get the vacuum cleaner out, and while I was vacuuming, the baby took all the shoes down from the rack and then yelled at me when I put them back.

I can’t write because she also wanted me to hold her all evening, and then needed me to hold her to fall asleep. Lately she’s developed a knack for throwing fits and flopping on the floor when she doesn’t get exactly what she wants. My biceps are strong, but my back hurts. 

I can’t write because a childhood friend died on Tuesday, and it doesn’t make sense. We played our Suzuki Book One recital together. I was six, it was at a nursing home, and I wore a homemade dress I referred to as my “cow dress” because of the farm animal print. Both of our violins were so small and squeaky. We played in recitals, string quartet camps, and youth orchestra together for almost a decade. I know there’s music in heaven, but why do these things happen?

I can’t write because big changes are looming, and they’re making all the small ones seem pointless, even though I know it’s the small changes that get you to the big ones. It’s like playing Monopoly, but with life. It all feels very silly, except for when I wake up at 2 AM with the sudden fear that I’m not passing GO or collecting $200 and I might end up in jail.

I can’t write because sometimes the numbers get in my head, and I start to compare my work to other people’s. I wonder if I’ll ever get over measuring myself this way.

I can’t write because lately I’ve been wondering if the “voice of the oppressor²” is actually just exhaustion. Maybe it’s a fear that too much of me is out in the world that I can’t take back, and maybe it’s asking, “Does the world really need more words?” Whatever it is, it’s sometimes quite mean. Maybe I could negotiate for it to speak a little more kindly. It probably looks like this owl: 🦉. Quite judgy, if we’re being honest.

I can’t write, because naps are wonderful. Have you ever laid on the floor and piled blankets on yourself until you feel like a cocooned slug, then woken up two hours later hoping the house is still intact? It reminds me of when I used to make blanket nests as a child. Perhaps we all could use a little more cocooning. They say eventually you turn into a butterfly.

I can’t write, because when something gets hard, it’s easy to think you’re not supposed to be doing it at all. Not writing seems like the answer, until you write about that too. 

So tell me, why can’t you write?

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Lately:

Mendelssohn, ashes and tired babies, ready for something, Valentine's Day work, chocolate poems, as fancy as I get, blankets and tea, library books

Thinking: Lent is upon us. There’s been so many great pieces, like this by

Haley Stewart

, this by

Dixie Dillon Lane

and this one by

Tsh Oxenreider

, that I don’t feel the need to add my own to the mix. I agree wholeheartedly that for the high achieving perfectionists among us, the temptation for Lent to prove our ability to “try harder” is strong. So maybe your Lenten discipline could be something like resting when you’re tired, or getting ready to leave earlier so you don’t snap at your children when they can’t find their socks, or choosing to start a Lenten discipline three days in, when it’s too late to do it perfectly. Maybe your life is Lenten right now, and you need to accept that God is merciful. One of the most fruitful Lenten seasons of my life was probably the year that our son was born on Ash Wednesday and we moved the Saturday before Easter. I don’t believe that a formal Lenten discipline even crossed my mind that year, but some years you really don’t need to go looking for it.

Laughing: Let’s just say that nighttime services with a lot of small children can be… a lot. We started with the yearly token freak out about ashes on the forehead, then as we went up for individual absolution the toddler yelled, “I don’t LIKE THAT!” at the top of his lungs and started crying. At one point in the service I had to take the baby out, then my husband had to take the toddler out, and then two of our other children also emerged out into the narthex for undetermined reasons. Leaving yes, a total of one Roberts child, sitting in… duh, duh, duh, the front row. All of the older folks were entertained, we got a good dose of humility, and all was well. If you’ve ever wondered if you’re the only family that feels like a circus at church, wonder no more.

Reading: This article about Elisabeth Elliot was very interesting. I’d like to read the biography by

Lucy S. R. Austen

soon. From all the reviews I’ve read, and the author’s descriptions of the work, it sounds like there’s a lot to be gleaned from a more nuanced perspective of Elisabeth Elliot’s life. I read Passion and Purity in college, as did many others, so learning some of the subtext to some of these books is illuminating.

1. h/t to

Callie R. Feyen

for this prompt idea

2. Anne Lamott’s famous “perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor”