Even after a life changing event, banalities creep back in. The bins still need to be put out, the fish still needs to be fed. Almost a year and a half ago we were told my son had cancer. I wasn’t able to think a day in advance and yet, got through it. You put one foot in front of the other and suddenly you’ve run a marathon, (we’re not quite there yet, still only half way though). I couldn’t have pictured myself anywhere but in the hospital, still our new normal has unfolded. Vita continuat.
I like to write with a pen and paper. I scribble and rearrange on the page. In university I hand wrote my essay notes, mind maps, and arrows directed ideas. I didn’t feel the need to write back then, I enjoyed it, somewhat, but wasn’t drawn to writing like I am now. I’ve heard writing described as cathartic for people who’ve gone through trauma or are going through chaos. Maybe it allows time to rationalise a hive of thoughts, at least slow them for the seconds it takes to write a sentence. I don’t mean writing in terms of literature or academia. I mean letters, words, sentences—communication. Thoughts translated... and somewhat analysed. Cathartic? Yes, cathartic.