I’ve been struggling with writing lately.
While I was afraid to start this blog and put my words out there where someone might see them, I was excited too. I took a very long break from writing after college and it felt good to be writing again. I was learning so much that I wanted to share with others. I hoped what was helping me could maybe help you as well.
For a while I had multiple pieces I was working on at once. There was so much I wanted to write I could hardly keep up. I had lists of potential blog posts.
Then, I started not finding the time to sit down and write. When I did I would pick a topic off my list and open a new document only to find I couldn’t think of anything to say. So I’d pick a different topic and try again. And again. Before long all I had to show for my writing time was a folder filled with barely started blog posts and a lot of discouragement.
When I tried intentionally to write for this blog, it seemed like nothing I wanted to write fit with what my blog is supposed to be and the things I should be writing for my blog aren’t what I want to write.
I think the key here is that it’s my blog.
I’m still figuring out what it is and what I want it to be.
But I can post whatever I want.
There are a number of reasons for my struggles to write and I’m still working through them.
But I’ve missed this place. I’ve missed clicking publish. I’ve missed sharing my words, even when I don’t know whether anyone will even see them.
So today I’m going to share a little something I wrote just for the fun of it. There isn’t necessarily a point or a lesson. It’s just a sliver of a childhood memory that brought me joy in writing again.
These days winter seems like something to endure, but when I was a kid winter just held a different sort of magic.
Summer was freedom and a never-ending variety of props to enhance our play—sticks, leaves, acorns, pine needles, moss, bark, jump ropes, bikes, wagons…
But the snow was a creative material like no other.
It could be feathery soft or icy hard. It could support me zooming downhill at high speed or slow me to a wallow in my tracks. The snow could be molded into kingdoms and communities. It could be packed and launched in all out war.
Snow transformed everything. World over world. A blank slate waiting for imagination and mittened hands.
Snow required preparation—snow pants, coats, hats, scarves, mittens, and boots. No matter how carefully I bundled up, it was never enough to keep the wet chill from leaking in around my wrists and ankles.
My sisters and I played hard.
Tired, sweaty, and hot after hours in the snow, we’d tumble inside and strip off all our extra layers. The entryway rug was covered in soggy outerwear, soaked with sweat and melting snow. No matter how carefully I tried to pull off my boots, usually at least one sock got stuck and pulled off my foot.
Hot chocolate was a special treat reserved to warm up after playing in the frigid outdoors. I was always overheated from exertion and really wanted something cool and refreshing. But I would never turn down a chance for the chocolatey drink. Sometimes I’d chug a big glass of cold milk while I waited for my hot chocolate to heat, attempting to cool my insides enough to thoroughly enjoy the warmth.
I don’t play in the snow anymore. Hot chocolate is now a little too sweet for my taste. These days I prefer to snuggle under a blanket and warm myself with a mug of hot tea.