Wordless

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say. – Anais Nin

For ages I’ve dreamt of a pause in life. Time to reflect, notice, cherish my family, my home. If only I could just have a few days or weeks to catch my breath, I thought. Time to write my book. Time to write letters. Journal. Let out all the words that fill my head, jumble my coherent speech, and even creep out as I type unconsciously as I go through my days – a quirky subtext to my life.

I think in paragraphs, revising incessantly. Admiring new words overheard, celebrating people’s word choice when something catches me by surprise. Language is my paintbrush. Was my paintbrush.

Once life’s great pause finally came…

My words have been stuck in my throat, too big and hard and scary to let out.

This is not the break I wanted. Each day I wake up hoping it will have just been a nightmare. Each day as I sip my coffee trying to decide what to make of the day, I realize it was not.

Thus far, my family has been spared the worst of it. We are healthy and employed. We are together. We have Netflix and ample wine and chocolate. But even so, there is an ache. Maybe the ache’s name is grief. Or fear. Or uncertainty. Or sadness. Or impatience. On any given day, multiple labels fit.

And the ache, like a blocked artery slowly weakening the patient, keeps my words from escaping.

They’re piling up and crowded in my head. Sleep has been scarce. Emotional bandwidth less than usual. Tonight, I’m pushing them. I’m not crazy about how they look as I lie in the dark pecking out characters on my phone as the world rests. They’re inadequate. Imposters for all the deep thoughts, and problems, and needs of the world.

But here they are. Exhaling at last.