It's kind of strange, but ever since I announced my decision to forgo wine for a year, I've felt less of a need to write about it. I'm not sure why this is. Maybe it's because I've been met with such an outpouring of support and stories. Maybe it's because I've been met with some criticism, too. Not much, but some. And some is hard, sometimes.
I don't know.
Maybe it's because I'm almost three months into this journey (oh how I despise this Bachelor-esque word) and the fact that I am not drinking is not something I think about all the time. It's become part of my routine, my ritual. Just writing this - in my garden, to the din of construction in a neighboring garden - I smile. That not drinking has become routine, ritual. Because for so long, drinking was routine, ritual. That this has changed, that I have changed, means a great deal.
Anyway. I'm feeling torn about this whole thing. There are moments when I want to talk about it, when I want to answer people's questions (because there have been many), when I am energized by explaining what I am doing, and why. But there are also moments when I feel quiet, when I feel exposed, when I feel protective of my thoughts, of myself.
I imagine all of this is just part of it. The evolution I can't yet see because I'm in its very throes. I imagine that it makes sense that I am dancing between desires to tell my story and to simply live it.
This right now is one of those moments when I feel like saying something, even if that something is about saying nothing. My little girl is in the garden with me now. She wears cat ears and sings a made-up song. She has a beautiful voice.
She has a voice.
So do I.
That doesn't mean I want to, or need to, use it all the time though.