Losing my voice

So if you are a somewhat regular reader of this blog, you are no doubt thinking the same thought that I have been thinking recently:

What the heck?  These blogs are getting so boring and so mundane!

Well, yes.  Yes, they are.

I have been really wondering about this phenomenon lately.   I seem to have totally lost my voice.  I no longer feel the intensity of emotion that crafted the first ten months of this blog. I no longer suffer from the pain and sorrow of the newly empty nest, and I no longer feel the deep, sweet pain that colored my first entries.

The kids have moved back home, temporarily, but intensively.  They are here, they have brought their food, their soaps and shampoos and lotion. They have piled up their shoes, their shirts, their towels. The refrigerator is filled with tempeh and tofu and all natural yogurts.  The cabinets overflow with brown rice and craisins and herbal teas.  I can’t walk into the laundry room without tripping over someone’s shoes or sleeping bag or hamper.  I fumble my way around my own closets, pushing aside winter coats and hiking boots to find my vaccuum.  The nest is filled, to overflowing.

And so I have lost my voice.  My writing was shaped by my pain.  It was created and ordered by the depth of my sadness as I contemplated my empty, childless house, devoid of chaos or clutter or laughter or tears.  I hated the empty nest and all that it implied, and I used that hatred to create my early entries. I was lost, and I was articulate.

Now, I am surrounded by a steady swirl of children, returning to the house to eat, or sleep or sing or do laundry.  Each day brings a new surprise, a new face, a group to feed or entertain.  I am happy once again as I clean and organize and cook and eat and laugh.  My heart is filled and my blog is empty.

If you read this blog, and if you find something here that speaks to you, I ask you to show patience.  This summer of visits and dinners and grown children come home will soon be at an end, and I will return, with all of my sadness intact, to the world of the “empty nest.”  My voice, alas, will return.

One thought on “Losing my voice

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