My mom was visiting the past few days. We spent the days trying to sneak in some outdoor adventures between the rain drops. And she trimmed my hair. One of those cutting off a few inches to let the rest grow in nicer things. Pruning, if you will.
It's funny when you realize you are in need of pruning.
Want to know a secret?
I started a novel. But that's not the real secret. The real secret is... I hate writing fiction. Don't get me wrong, I adore fiction. There is nothing I love more than reading a beautifully crafted novel. And I always thought I would write one, because... well... I like to write, and I love novels, so... why not write one? So I've been sitting on this idea that my work will one day be writing fiction. But now I realize that I need to prune that idea a bit. Writing is one thing. Writing fiction... not my thing. Which is okay.
I'm so thankful for folks who put their hearts into fiction, who live in that other world you need to be in to write a story. But for me, I found that writing fiction takes me away from here. And I have a hard enough time being here, living my story, that if I'm going to write anything at all... it's going to be from my point of view, helping me to figure out the in and outs of my life and my world. Some can do that through fiction, and I applaud that. But I think I need to keep life as simple as possible for myself. Which means creative non-fiction. And I'm cool with that.
In the shower this morning my hands ached for the extra three inches, not knowing what to do with those extra seconds, the shorter length. I've done a few double takes in the mirror. It's still me. Just simplified. Finding bits that were hard to find with the clutter of dry and split ends. There's a bit of awe in the eyes that I see staring back at me through the mirror. Awe in the power of simplifying and clearing the clutter of both a head of hair and a soul.