Sundays to me, mean being home, smelling something on the stove, listening to my kids play or a game being watched on tv, just being.
After my divorce, I’ve been chasing that Sunday vibe, seeking new traditions and comforts, stumbling the whole way, holding on to people that have failed to give me that same feeling. It has taken a few years to realize that what I need can only come from being my authentic self, simply by being me.
I hope this blog connects with you on some level, maybe you’ve experienced the same feelings of loss and heartbreak, and just wanting to be home on a Sunday, instead, looking forward to the craze of Monday because only then will you escape feeling alone.
For now, I’m coming home on Sunday, here, in my new blog, by writing.
It has been years since I wrote anything, the last being a play. That play had the opportunity to be read aloud, to me, and a small audience around the year 2000. I don’t remember how it went because I blocked it out. I was too focused on not running out of the tiny theatre where my acting teacher at the time sat at the doorway. He was focused on pulling something out of me that he knew was there. I still needed convincing. I remember sweating so bad, I just wanted it to end. My words being read back to me felt raw, almost shameful. Who was I to write a play?
I never wrote again. Until now. And as I write this, I can still feel the sweat, the lump in my throat, I am still holding back.
But I want to go home. I want to stop chasing Sunday and just be freaking home already.