Four years ago, I wrote with gusto.

My ideas filled my journals and my blog and my topics for my columns were numerous. My thoughts were wacky and silly and, though it’s a little embarrassing to admit and sounds kind of braggy, I would read them afterward and laugh heartily.

But then my mom died, and the fertile landscape of my creativity turned brown and dried up.

I seriously considered giving up my column for a while, because I had nothing entertaining to say, no witty observations. It seemed all I had to write about was death and grief and the never-ending suffering of a loss too profoundly painful for me to ever do it justice in writing.

I slogged through, and often found myself pulling material I’d already published to my blog to be printed as my column. I had no energy or inspiration to do more writing than I absolutely had to.

I’ve said before that part of me died with my mom, and I know that thought really bothered some of my loved ones. And while I’m not typically the type to say, “Do whatever you feel like,” or “You can’t help how you feel” — because I believe in something, or Someone, much greater — that empty part of me is something I have tried to revive without much success. (A well-meant “Buck up!” comment from someone isn’t going to change that, unfortunately.)

I think my creativity lives in that shadowy place now, too. Though it does make an appearance from time to time, things are not the same.

I don’t know why I wanted to put these thoughts to paper (or blog) today, but I did want to. And now I have.

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