Time to write.

It's time.

Maybe it has been time for a while now, and I was just ignoring it.  

But I am finally at a place, again, in my life where I feel like I can write.  The words of e.e. cummings sum up my writing experience over the last two years (I know this is grossly out of context, being a love poem, but the words speak so clearly of my other experiences):

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

Our journey through P.A. school (which felt more like white river rafting on a pool noodle than just a simple journey) has finally come to an end.  And all of the things that I kept inside are ready to be let out. Well... maybe not all.

For the past few years as we have struggled to make this leap between careers, starting with pre-reqs, rejection, night shifts, and acceptance I have felt so weak in so many ways.  I felt like the "most frail gesture" could enclose me.  Even suffocate me. It has been an extremely vulnerable time for me.  After surviving the heartbreak (and sometimes anger) of rejection I felt like I was already cut wide open.  There was no hiding from it.  Our friends, our family, coworkers, and even some strangers knew of the struggle it was to get in to P.A. school. I knew there was judgement.  I knew that many others thought he couldn't do it. Some people even tried to persuade JT to choose a different path "maybe this just isn't for you".  (And if you have ever seen JT at work, or anyone who works with him you would know just how funny, and ridiculous that was.  Medicine is definitely for him.) Somehow, at the time, I was able to embrace the vulnerability, even write about.  Writing actually became therapeutic for me. I discovered an outlet that could carry me through. 

But as we came closer to actually going to PA school, and our world tipped upside down, writing began to haunt me.  The struggles that came from leaving our home and surviving the all night studying, and long distance rotations suddenly became way too close. Things that "i cannot touch because they are too near".  Suddenly, my struggles were far too personal to share in writing. The words stung even more when given life through text.  It was easier to deny and survive, when they were not public. It is, however, one of my biggest regrets that I didn't keep a personal journal at the time.  But even in secret, writing became unbearable. There was no escaping my heartache once it was put on paper. Has anyone else felt this?  I lost a place of refuge, probably when I needed it the most.   

Now, it has been almost 6 months since JT graduated with his masters as a Physician's Assistant. And the emotions from that phase in my life are starting to fade.  I am finally starting to believe that it is all real.   And the need to write is growing. 

Lately I have come in contact with a number of books, movies, and people that have reminded me of the importance of creativity in my life.  And the shambles I become in it's absence. With JT graduated from school, and stability on the horizon, I feel like maybe it is time for me. 

Time for me to breathe.

Time for me to write.

Time for me to create.