Not really about writing except also isn’t everything?

Hello dear ones

The other day I woke up feeling a little introspective. Not unusual for me, some of you will know, I mean, hey, I often live my entire day largely inside my own head. However, a few thoughts that have been hanging around semi-formed have crystallised and they just might resonate with some of you other mid-life people. 

I’ve realised I’ve been inhabiting a liminal space for the last four-ish years. And this has been part of my silence on this blog. I was caught, grieving a stage of life that had changed very quickly and mostly without any choice on my part, and not yet held by a new way of living. It’s obvious to me now how suddenly the changes occurred and how freaking hard it was. Within a period of six months, I stopped teaching (to write), my youngest child (and last at home) finished school and moved to another city to study, and then my dear mum died, closely followed by our dear labrador.

Just in case that doesn’t sound so much, to recap, I went from being a working mother of school-aged kids and doggo who was trying to give her elderly mum as much company as possible, to someone with a lot of free time. (Yes, to write mainly, but we all know that it’s rare to be glued to the desk for 8 hours a day – my creativity only tolerates that when I’m really deep in my first drafts and then it’s absolutely necessary, but, most of the time, I need other things in my life.) 

Those of you who’ve been through any of these changes will know that each one alone can throw you off course. 

All together at once, it was a cyclonic blast into a void.

I guess I had an idea that I was adrift. I certainly mentioned it to a few friends and knew I had some processing to do. In amongst the grief, I kinda forgot that I’d only recently stopped working outside the home as well. I’d gone from having a meaningful role in the lives of quite a few people – and a golden gentleman of a dog let’s not forget! – to someone who occasionally counted the hours until her lovely husband got home. (And since he travels for work sometimes as much as three quarters of the month, let me tell you, that was some countdown.) 

Of course, it’s far from the worst place it’s possible to be. I was burnt out from years of looking after others and to those of you still in that space I send energy. There was some complicated relief in the time I had to myself. And I wasn’t alone really. My children kept me in their social calendar (um hooray who isn’t grateful for that?!) whether remotely or face to face. My friends and extended family members were still there and generous with their time even though they were all busy with their own lives, just as they should be, working taxing jobs and/or juggling all the things I used to juggle. I completely understood that I was in a place of privilege, housed, fed and safe, with that hugely precious commodity of our era – time. I could hardly complain. I was in a unique space that was all mine and mine alone to rebuild.

So, what’s changed? I’m still here, in this liminal space, but the new feeling that I’m sharing today is that I’m coming up and out. I may not be published yet, but much of my time is spent writing, reading, and with people who write books and people who read them as much as me. I have daily rituals that spark joy and good health, things it took me a while to find as I groped around in so much empty space trying to locate them. I mean, that emptiness was scary, I’m telling you. But it was also profound. Without that sheer magnitude of loss and change coming all at once, would I have found the courage to shake myself into a new way of being? I’m not sure I would have.

Of course, this liminal space of mine does not compare to that of those who lose children or homes or whose countries fall into conflict or so on. No, this was just what I was given to deal with at this time in my life. And so, I have, to the best of my ability, in amongst the weeping and the wobbling.

I can’t help wondering if, somewhere, my mum is saying “Well done, darling.” And urging me on. She will always be part of my DNA. But I also wonder, sadly, if losing her, in among the rest of it, was a required piece of the puzzle in helping me understand how to finish growing up – and fully into myself.

For those of you out there who are at a similar stage of life, or a different one that has its own ‘betweenness’ going on, take heart, my friends and keep sniffing out the joy. It may be lonely, sad, tiring or feel never-ending, but it’s opportunity. I have finally learnt, more than halfway through my life, that it really is only by falling that we learn how to get up. More importantly, and boy I wish I’d known this earlier, I’ve also learnt that it’s the wobbling and the failing and the still not knowing what we are looking for that is where the real living happens. And I don’t know about you but to me, that seems like something worth knowing.

Meanwhile, and this bit is about writing, I’m deep in the fifth draft of my Illawarra manuscript about a grieving woman searching for meaning. Huh?! Where did that come from?! Unlike me, Carrie is caught up in the mystery surrounding the death of a politician who was once her student and events that occurred twenty five years earlier. It’s a hard, messy story but it’s what wants to be written right now so that’s where I’m at!

Much love to you all – and strength for whatever challenges life is throwing your way,

Annie