These days I spend a lot of time on the road. In a week, I'll spend about 10-20 hours driving. I'm no long distance truck driver, so to a lot of people, that probably doesn't seem like a lot of time. But for me it is. And there are just a couple of things that I think about more than others while gliding along the concrete paths:

1) building another house (because, come on, that was a party with all the power tools, design planning and late nights)

2) getting back into writing music

and lastly

3) simply writing again

Where do I even start with getting back into writing? How do I even begin? There have been so many days and nights that have floated by without me even noticing. Stories I could have written (or did write within my mind as they were happening but never put to paper).

The last couple years have passed like a blur. I have kids growing up in front of my eyes, and those same eyes are developing their smile lines and creases. When that happen? I'm only in my mid-thirties, but at the same time...I'm in my mid-thirties! I'm young and old at the same time. I have to watch what I eat because my metabolism has no room for forgiveness. I have to run; less because I like it, and more because too many days on my butt means a bigger butt. Yet I still have more than half my life ahead of me which holds many dreams to come true, and I have half my life behind me full of dreams that came to pass.

And so writing has always been a passion, but in the midst of aging and trying to survive life and pay the bills that just keep on coming, I've forgotten how to use that muscle.

I've forgotten the words and phrases and the way sentences should roll off the tongue. I've forgotten how much more the world makes sense when I can write it down and pull its hold off my brain. I've forgotten the relief I feel when I can dig deep within and relearn who I am just by sitting down and moving my fingers on the keys. I can remember feeling thankful for high school typing class which honed my fingers to move almost as quickly as my thoughts. I remember feeling euphoric as my fingers told me how I felt and when I reread my sentences it finally made sense and why I felt the way I felt.

This was therapy. This was good. This was sometimes the only way I could find my way home. When I could pull it out of the depths and smear it on the screen, then and only then I could sleep soundly knowing that I could let my mind rest; even just for a night.

This I miss. I miss my heart. I miss my fingers. I miss it all.

This weekend was a quiet one. My house was clean enough. My projects were done enough. I took the weekend off to relax, to read (another lost art of mine), and feel sane. And then the more I sat and realized I was bored, the more I realized that it was that I missed writing. Both writing music and writing words.

So while I make no promises of showing up here on a consistent basis, I am here to remind myself that this is a good place to sit. It's a good place to rest. It's a good place to remember.

Writing is good.