Writers Block

Wow I'm hopeless. So much for updating every week...

In my defence, I've been in China. I took a little sabbatical for myself for 10 days, sans husband and child. It was good for me. I wrote, reflected, drank a lot, fell down the stairs, fought with an ex-bf who just suddenly turned up at my hotel for a day, got kicked out of my hotel for misbehaviour, managed to also get involved in a street fight, and sat on the beach in the dead of a snowy winter.

And no, I don't want to explain.

I also fell in love again... with my country.

There are times when I look at my life and the things I've been through and I have to say that I am, more so than the average person, one that lives passionately and thrives on drama. I'm a butterfly, still yet to find my way, still yet to find a home. I live on on the cusp of extremities, never settling for the simple or the mundane. I am an enigma, even I do not understand myself.

Someone reminded me today of something that Deepak Chopra said: If money was of no concern and you had all the time in the world, what would you be doing with your life?

I guess I'm there now. What should I be doing? I went to China with the intention of writing, which I did. But at times it felt like I took 10 steps back each time I took 2 steps forwards. Writers block is a myth... its called fear and insecurity.

Motherhood is but one of my branches - being a mother, a daughter, a sister, a professional, a writer - are other branches of this naked tree. But I can't do any of these things well without being me. Sometimes I feel that marriage and family has made me lose myself, but the truth is that I cannot have any of these branches without roots and the root is my family.

I made my husband cry yesterday. I seem to do it a lot.

I guess I'm an onion. Sometimes you have to peel down the layers, and sometimes you weep.

Dusk from my window, Qingdao