I have missed writing.

The scratch of my pen on paper. My cross-outs and do-overs. Arrows moving lines I’ve written up or down. Reading aloud to my husband before I hit publish.

Writing quiets the clamoring, broken, and frightening world around me. Almost and only when writing am I able to hear myself think.

I have only recently connected dreaming with doing. Sometimes doing must be scheduled – in pen – as are doctor appointments, duties, dates, and dusting. Making time for what matters requires its own kind of focus, a conscious relocation from the bottom of the list to the top.

There’s need for determination. Hope. An awareness that what feeds my soul is at least as important as what I feed my body.

And so I’m writing again.

It’s been scheduled.