I haven’t written for myself (I am under the impression that I actually have an audience, besides my one friend Nora) since September 8th and I can’t remember if its 2025 or 2026. I am envious of people who seemingly straddle and share their creative and professional lives so seamlessly. I have been trying for years, and it feels like internal war. It is a rare morning that I have woken up long before my kids, while the sky still resembles 2am. I race to sit down to write because it’s easy to forget this part of myself when I am catering to my children’s needs or answering Gabe’s questions about bagels.
I woke up suffocated by anxiety that I hadn’t ordered sticker storage for our new bagel shop that we apparently move into in 7 days. The sticker sticks haven’t been ordered and I haven’t written in months. They say it’s hard to do one thing well. Or at least that’s what my dad says. The writing keeps my soul alive and the bagel shop keeps my brain and my body alive. I have lots of these binaries in my life. Do you? New York keeps my soul alive, London keeps my body steady. But what is a body with no soul? It is nothing but a big lump.
These are my Sunday morning musings at 6am. It is my lifelong battle, trying to free this little soul. I’m not even sure what she wants to do, but writing is a good start, even the semi conscious morning word vomit.
Sharing is such a big part too. The writing fills me half way, and the sharing fills me to the brim. Even if nobody reads it. The binary comes up for me again, should I share or should I not? Sharing feels almost ridiculed in a time when all we do is share. We share our life protocols online from tooth washing, to sex positioning. I even saw someone share a video about the best way to sit on the toilet and exemplify seated exercises so that their stool could pass. That’s too much sharing if you ask me, but who am I to judge when I will ultimately share my stream of consciousness in thirty minutes when this is done?
Then the sharing becomes insignificant. Not to say my writing is any better than the person demonstrating shit or sex positioning. But if we are all sharing, how much are we taking in?
I chopped some vegetables the other day while Gabe was sick and couldn’t cook. When he’s not well he mostly just grunts about how unwell he is, so there’s no way I could get him to dice an onion for me. He’s a chef and I am far from it. I was so inspired by how awfully I “diced” this singular carrot that I thought, “that’s fucking it! I need a TikTok! The world needs to see this. They need to see a mother solely responsible for cooking the soup at home and demolishing this mirepoix.” And here lies the problem. Five days on, I’m not sure anyone needs to see that scene. But does anyone need to read this either? Because in theory, it’s the same.
Thank you for reading, Nora.
