Last month I taught a journal-writing class to a group of women at my church. Though I practically cut my teeth writing in my journal, I no longer write regularly. I justify myself by claiming that I spend my days writing other things, which absolves me from any sort of journal-writing guilt. Honestly though, at the end of the day I feel like I simply have nothing left to say.
The details of my life are mundane:
I eat, I sleep, I work. Repeat.
Of course, there are variations, but not many.
I eat, but I eat the same things on a weekly basis. (We follow a set menu at the Gingerbread House because of picky eaters.)
I sleep, but not much because my body keeps a monk’s schedule, awakening usually at 3 or 4 am.
I work: I write, I shovel, I cook, I clean, I drive, I organize.
These days, there’s little that’s noteworthy but for the snow, and even that’s lost its newsworthiness, as it simply keeps coming.
But then two weeks ago, I found myself in a situation that I had to write about:
I am s…