I’ve been staring at a blank screen on and off for about 45 minutes. I don’t know what to write.
I want to write something really special and moving. I want to feel the emotional release that comes with finally articulating tough thoughts into words and sending them out into the universe.
But I don’t know what to write.
When this kind of writer’s block happened in elementary school, teachers instructed the class to simply look at our surroundings and write whatever we saw. To use all our senses to “paint a picture with our words.”
Begrudgingly, we’d glance around and begin jotting down descriptions of the walls, the chalkboard (*pre dry-erase) and our classmates. It was always a surprise to suddenly realize I’d created a page of thoughts by observing the simplest things around me.
Right now, I’m sitting in my favorite spot on the couch, right in the middle. From this vantage point I can survey the entire room and I have easy access to my phone, kindle and water bottle. I’m wearing black pajama pants emblazoned with white skulls and crossbones and pink hearts, and an old, blue t-shirt. The house smells amazing; a mixture of the chocolate chip cookies I just made on an impulse and the pasta we had for dinner. Diners, Drive-ins and Dives is on TV and the dogs are passed out on the floor, exhausted from the heat. Jim just concluded an awful battle with his finance homework and now is commenting, “I want that,” to the food featured on the show. My house is comfortably messy – the clean laundry likely won’t find a home until the end of the week, and the empty dog food bag will blend in as part of the furniture until we eventually give in and take it out. Despite the fact that I cleaned this weekend, there’s dog hair and dust everywhere, but only to the extent that things appear ‘lived-in,’ we have not reached hoarder status.
An evening that seems completely routine is full of the details that make my life mine. There’s nothing unusual or spectacular about tonight, but I love the calm sense of having a routine that is ours alone.
As I get older, it’s no longer big events or even holidays I look forward to with the same enthusiasm as years before. It’s the hours and days that feel completely typical that leave me most content. That’s when I can recognize what feels like home.