I think we’re often told that adulthood is all about how you juggle.  Sometimes, we’re told it’s a balancing act.  Well let’s mix some metaphors here and say adulthood is flat out trying to juggle while you walk a balance beam that occasionally turns into a tight rope.

For me, I generally walk the balance beam okay, it’s the juggling that gives me trouble.  I learned to juggle scarves in 3rd grade PE, but no one ever taught me how to juggle 20 flaming torches of adult life.  I suppose it’s something you learn on the fly.

In my world, those torches don’t exactly fall.  More, they float out of reach so that as I walk my beam/tightrope, I’m struggling to continue the juggle, with one eye on those things floating just out of my grasp.  I make a grab for it–and it just floats further away… taunting me.

Right now, writing is one of those flaming torches.  It’s something I love to do.  When I’m writing well, it effects my whole outlook.    I’m a much happier person.  Writing is a part of me and not being able to do it–and not being able to do it well– drives me just a little crazy.  It’s not that I have nothing to write about–it’s just I seem to have lost the ability to write about it effectively.  Is it a side effect of adulthood?  That stupid torch will always burn just out of reach because I’ve got too much else to juggle.  Is it a side effect of teaching writing to students who are disinterested, don’t care, and skills make me want to scream.   I don’t know, I only know each failed grab makes my heart sink a little deeper.

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