I spent part of my childhood, the best years of it, in Georgia. Pine trees towered over our ranch style home and created a forest where I was an explorer. I built forts, baked mud pies, and, according to my mother, put worms in my pockets. I was free of dos and don’ts, and every mud pie was created with authenticity. When I write, I escape into a place like the forest of my childhood.
Typically, I write once a week on Sundays. I recently tried writing on a weekday after coming home from work, cooking dinner, and managing all of the details that life necessitates. I fell asleep after fifteen minutes, computer on my lap, cat meandering around me for a place to settle in.
A good friend of mine has more than once reminded me of the time when she asked me how she was possibly going to do all the things she needed to do when she was short on time and void of energy. I responded with “You’re going to do it anyway.” Simplistic, lacking in empathy. Realistic? Sometimes, yes. I’ve found the majority of adult life is doing it anyway.
“Anyway,” however, can imply both necessity and want.
I’ve found that the effort of creating a life you love, pursuing a passion outside a job of necessity, results in some of doing what you love, anyway. Taking time to devote to your passion’s pursuit. Approaching what you love with the same discipline as the things you don’t.