When I was in my 20’s I took a receptionist job in Long Beach, California, at some random manufacturing company. They made safes. I answered the phones and transferred calls to the appropriate department. I did some extra data entry because I was bored.
On my lunch break I’d drive down to the coffee shop around the corner and scribble little poems on napkins while I waited for my order. I never did anything with them. I didn’t try to publish them or send them out, though I dreamed about doing that one day.
I remember the feeling though. Stealing those lunch break moments to write whatever creativity was lurking in the corners of my mind. Then going back to work and on with my day.
The job was uneventful but that was its appeal, for me. The routine, the consistency, the structure. There was no pressure, other than to just show up. I knew I was overqualified and that seemed to be the release valve I needed at the time.
I’d crank up the music on my drive home, from one freeway to the next and the next, until I hit my exit. I liked the drive, too. It felt good.
Everything about that short lived season of my life felt good. It felt settled. Like, for once, I wasn’t pushing full speed ahead, constantly anticipating something better. On paper, you’d never know I was recovering from one of the biggest burnout breakdowns in my life.
Today, as I’m sitting in the preschool parking lot waiting to pick up my son, I type this into the notes app on my phone and it starts to feel a bit like scribbling on coffee shop napkins. And I am reminded that stolen moments of creativity are a heavy layer of what helped me heal 20 years ago.
Writing has always been a part of who I am and holding space for that gives me at least a small respite from these daunting times we’re living in. A bit of hope and healing when I need it.
Lately I’ve been writing a little poetry again. This time, I’m sharing them more than before. Maybe it can offer some solace to you as well, when you need it.