We all know The Rut.
The gray place that seems to suck the joy out of our days. The heaviness that you can’t even give language too, but you can feel it. You know it’s there and it’s real.
The days or weeks or months where everything just seems harder.
I don’t know why I’m in a rut. We always try to find the why, don’t we? We dig and search and hope to find the reason behind our dysfunction, hoping that if we identify the cause we can come up with a solution.
The why doesn’t matter much, though. Either way, things are just… gray.
I would love nothing more than to sleep and read and not cook or clean or look at my phone for a few days. But that doesn’t mean we can’t take care of ourselves. Moms don’t get days off, though. And if I had one I wouldn’t know what to do. So today, I wrote. A lot. Words are my bandages – they are my self care.
A funny thing happens when I start to write about the things that are in my head. Articulating irrational things makes them seem, well, irrational. Irrational things don’t hold up to the clarity of text.
So, here I am. Writing my way out of another rut. Line by line. Page by page.
When I read back over the words, the gray separates into the black and white and suddenly there is a clarity that seemed impossible at the bottom of The Rut.