Acceptance is the New Hunger

I have not suffered a serious case of writer's block in quite some time, and I'll admit, it's really got me out of sorts.

I don't really know why eloquence has abandoned me, but it's almost as if a part of me has been amputated.

When I sit here and stare at the screen, my fingers stumble over the keys, as my brain stumbles over the formulation of thoughts and ideas. The desertion has left me feeling decidedly handicapped.

You know that feeling when you go out by yourself, and you feel like something is missing? You check for your keys, they're there, you check for your wallet, it's there, cell phone, debit card, there, there. And then you realize that it's the sheer unencumbered freedom that has you feeling unbalanced and just....wrong?

That's hasn't happened to me in quite a while, because my boys have been in school full time for quite some years, and I've grown accustomed to being out by myself.

But it's an eerily similar feeling; something is missing and I have to find it.

So I have been examining this thing, this...handicap, trying to figure out what is laming me, why I can't seem to find anything to write about; why I can't seem to lay the groundwork for a good story or a compelling piece.

My personal stories I don't have the heart to tell right now.

The myriad little outrages I experience daily might be good filler, but they strike me as petty and pointless and stupid.

The important stuff I just don't seem to have the chops to tackle at the moment. What does it mean when a person can't muster up enough righteous indignation about anything?

Books are always good blog fodder, but right now, I'd rather actually read one than write about reading one. I'm feeling lazy and uninspired, I suppose.

My kids...sigh...they seem to take turns confounding me. Diminutive One is doing remarkably well and Pre-Pubescent One is driving me to an early grave at the ripe old age of 12 and 9/12ths. What more is there to say without sounding like every other "woe is me" blogger out there?

I could whine some more about life in the South...I always have an abundance of ammunition for that. But then, there's that pesky little "no whining" thing I so foolishy threw out there for all the world to see and hold me accountable for.

Accountability is kind of a downer sometimes.

Politics? I just don't do them. I will comment on a political post by someone else on occasion but I don't put my own head in that particular lion's mouth. I learned that lesson long ago.

Marital issues? Eh. We have 'em, sure. But by and large, my husband rocks and my complaints are largely inconsequential. Those that I do have I keep private, out of respect for him. He didn't ask to have his life put on display and he doesn't deserve to have his actions examined and judged by people who have no idea who he is as a person or a father or a human being.

It occurs to me then, that this is not a disease unto itself, but a symptom of a larger malaise.

Dissatisfaction.

It's a demon with which I have been wrestling for some time, as those of you who have been reading for a while, know.

Sometimes, I wonder if I'm the kind of person who is ever truly satisfied. Maybe I'm one of those people who is always hungering for something. And if so, maybe that is not always a bad thing. There are things that are worth hungering for: truth, knowledge, experience, justice, beauty....

But when one is a middle class stay at home Mom with limited options and resources, hunger is not a very contructive component in one's life.

In fact, it can really be a bitch.

Acceptance. Now there's a useful thing.

Don't you think people who just accept are, by and large, happier people?

I do.

Therefore, my secondary resolution for this year is to be more accepting of the way things are, instead of wishing so hard that they were different; and losing myself to anger and resentment when they are not.

Acceptance has never been my strong suit, but after 38 years, maybe it's time to try something different.

I'll let you know how that works out.