I’ve taken a break from blog writing for a bit. And while I’m writing a new post now, this may be the only for a while. Or it may not be. All I know is I want my blog to continue being on my terms only. I don’t want to feel compelled to write for any reason other than I feel the drive to. Which is kind of what this post turns out to be about: pouring from an empty cup.

Feeling stuck, I head out for a walk to try to bring some peace to my overall state of mind. Half way through, this sky catches my eye. I love how it looks, set against the black telephone wires. It feels decidedly unfair that NSW is heading out of lockdown while VIC is still very much stuck. I’m happy for them but I want the same for us. The walk helps. It gets me out of my funk. Turns out that taking this photo inspires me to create this post. I come home tired but filled with a new sense of resolve. We can do this.

A few months ago, I published a post titled: When hard times hit. It was about going through rough patches in life. It clocked up more views than any other post I’ve published here. Which got me thinking: maybe people can relate to it because we all go through difficult times? This past week I hit another one of those rough patches. I didn’t want to write about it because I didn’t think I had much to say about it. (It sucked, life sucks sometimes. What else is there?) But it’s only now that I’ve come out the other end that I have a bit of perspective. So I’m sharing my thoughts. 

When I was ten years old, I took a little notebook I found and turned it into a book of lists. I can picture the notebook. It was floral, kitschy 90s, small and narrow, like an address book. I titled the book “Chanee’s Helpful Handy Hints.” In it, I wrote myself detailed instructions about what to do in the event of things like fire, and the water system not turning off. I wanted to be prepared in any emergency, big or small.

At the beginning of March of this year, I started writing again. It wasn’t intentional or planned. But the world was spinning and I needed an anchor, so I grabbed onto the only one I knew that had grounded me in the past — my writing.

It was March, autumn had well and truly set in, bringing with it bright, blustering winds and flying leaves, and heralding the start of lockdown 1.0 here in Melbourne. It was a confusing time, a time of change and uncertainty. I’ve never liked autumn — this year, though, I grew to despise it. Because along with the winds came turbulent change, and with the cool air and gloomy skies floated in a virus that felt scary and unpredictable, that seemed to grow in momentum with each passing day. I did everything I could to stay in control, to feel grounded amidst the change. Control is an illusion at the best of times, but this wasn’t the best of times, it was far from it, in fact. And I felt it.

This past weekend, while we whiled away the hours during Shabbat, my husband and I sorted through one of our memory boxes filled with letters and cards. I came across a lengthy letter I wrote to him in our early days, scrawled in quick, inspired handwriting. In it, I wrote that I love writing because I feel the written word has the power to move someone, and make them think, feel or act. It’s been over six years since I wrote that letter and those words. But to this day, it still remains one of the core reasons why I love to write. Because layered between the lines, there can be messages for readers to take away with them — of hope, struggle, life and humanity.

We’ve all been there, right? You know those times when things just feel…impossible? Nothing is working out, or so it seems, and it feels like you’re walking through slush in slow motion? I’ve been there. Have you? It feels like you’re living through your own version of hell, but it’s not; it’s just life. Life can catch you in ruts that are big and wide and deep, pulling you in way over your head. You know the ones I mean, right? You’re so stuck, it feels like you’re going backwards. Backwards through that thick, heavy slush.

I’m sitting at the beach as I write this, parked in my car, with my iPad out, and Spotify on. The beach is a place I’ve revisited many times during this pandemic. While everything else has been changing, it has remained a constant. Sometimes it’s windy and the waves are grey and choppy, other times the water is like a sheet of glass — quiet, still and perfectly uninterrupted. But it’s always there — a reassuring presence, a moment suspended in time. I came to the beach right at the beginning of the Corona upheaval. I wasn’t even sure why I came that particular day, but it was what I needed, and my heart knew it, even if I didn’t. I found myself there before I even knew where I was going.