When a new month begins on a Monday, a world of possibilities awaits. Yet, when that month is July, my heart clenches a bit with the knowledge that the year is halfway done. My goals, as always, seem to be in tatters in the notes of my journal, in unfinished to-do lists that I have stopped moving forward to the next page. I’m not sure if the problem lies (lays?) in the way I set goals or in the way I fail to execute the necessary steps, but it’s definitely a problem.
I’m working to change things. Butt in the seat more frequently and shoes on my feet to make sure I’m moving my body, not just for the physical results but also to quiet my thoughts. Part of my problem, I know, sits in the space between lofty, book-writing goals and mundane, fix-up-this-house goals, because for some reason I am terrible at working on both the practical and the ideal at the same time. If I could balance the two a bit better, I would get more done, but I am tiptoeing toward fifty and don’t seem to be any better at it than when I was leaving unfinished “novels” next to my typewriter in my childhood bedroom.
I’m rambling, which is my prerogative here, in this corner of the internet I’m not sure anyone other than me (and a few bots) even knows exists anymore. It’s something, though, to be sitting and rambling instead of letting the words fester in my head until I can’t untangle them any longer.
Maybe, in the second half of the year, I can untangle the undergrowth.
Maybe, in the second half of the year, my writing will be able to breathe again.
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