Each morning I get out of bed and, after turning on the kettle, I start thinking about writing. What I’m going to write for the day, what other people have already written for the day (those studious bastards!) and – on an off, blocked up day – all the things that I just can’t seem to get onto that damned page. In a way, writing is like my baby – there all the time, sometimes whiney and annoying, mostly a pure joy. I actually can’t physically imagine my life without it (when I did and ‘abstained’ for a couple of years convinced that my writing was total and utter B.S. I fell into a huge depression, but more of that another time).
image by theloushe
Because I have this thing in my life – my thing – my reaction is always one of bewilderment when I hear the words, “I’m bored with my life,” and I don’t mean when I hear them from a child (although I still struggle to understand how a five year old can be ‘bored’ in today’s day and age). So, when I hear a grown adult who can do whatever they want, whenever they want say those words, my life dissatisfaction radar starts going into overdrive. Ding ding ding diiiiiing.
Enter mid life crisis, offensively large credit card bill and divorce. Because that’s what happens doesn’t it? People get ‘bored’ with life and look for something new and exciting, buxom blonde or otherwise which, inevitably, leads to divorce. Cliched much? Not really. This is our 21st century, domestic Australian reality. Genital warts and all.
Jokes and puns aside, I think having a thing – outside of your relationship with your significant other and your work (unless you can make a living out of your thing!) – is life sustaining. That emptiness that seems to rear its airy head once you’ve finished work, eaten dinner, done the dishes, cleaned the house and discovered there’s nothing on T.V.; that hollowness that sinks to the bottom of your gut when hubby gets on a plane for a two week business trip and leaves you all on your lonesome; that dread that bogs you down when you wake for the day and realise that you have to undergo the same routine that you underwent yesterday and the day before and the day before that just to keep that stupid, leaky roof over your head; that doesn’t exist with a thing. Because when you have a thing that’s yours, and yours only, it fills all those niggling holes in your spirit, stomach and ceiling – always.
Knitting, jogging, writing, reading, shoe shopping, beer brewing, gardening, painting, window shopping… what’s your thing? What gets you out of bed on those i-can’t-do-this days and makes you tickety tick tick?
Happy shovelling (things into the holes of your life that is!) xx