I haven’t written an entry on this blog in two months.

I’ve been writing. I’m an academic. I live in the 21st century. I write all the time. E-mails, texts, tweets, messages, article manuscripts, talks, courses.

But what does it mean for someone who believes that reflection is growth, and who believes in public reflection to engage community, that I haven’t taken time to reflect in length in this form in such a long time?

I also haven’t written creatively in several months after finishing a novel manuscript draft and major revision in 4 months.

What does it mean for someone who believes that writers are writers because they write, and who believes that writing is a discipline, a creative practice, one that has been a gift for me, that I haven’t taken time to write the stories within me?

I don’t know what it means or if it means much more than the meaning I give it (as with most things in life), but yesterday, in talking with a dear friend who is my writing partner, we engaged with this question, and today, I am considering it in the midst of a conversation in my head about “not having enough time.”

What does it mean for me to back in a discourse of scarcity? That I am not making the time for the work of my heart?

Things are changing for me, around me, and within me. How am I embracing those changes? Resisting them?

How does the head which has guided me for so long make space for the heart that knows what it wants?

I don’t know.

But today, I’m back on my blog. And that feels a little like coming home.