I began the process of writing my memoir a few years ago. Among my friends are those who have been working on their books for years. But they’re all a lot younger than I am. I might not have “years” to work on mine, so why even start? Approaching my seventieth year, I figured I’d be dead long before I finished it and thought I’d be wasting my time. Afraid that it might be too big a commitment, I worried that I would have to leave behind the other things that I need and enjoy doing. Like gardening, slapping paint onto canvas and watching it magically become a finished painting. Cooking delicious healthy meals, or traveling to places I’d like to revisit or go to for the first time.

But some told me I must do it anyway. They said I have many things to share that would benefit others … especially women.  And there was that voice in my head that I often shut out. It told me that I really didn’t have anything to lose. I kept seeing the word memoir, everywhere. When in bookstores, I’d find myself in the memoir section. Reading newspapers and magazines I often found references to memoir and their growing popularity.  I took all of that to mean that I must proceed.

I started by simply writing down memorable stories from my life. I posted many on them on my blog. Some, I filed away for a rainy day when I planned to haul them out and rework them into something I could share. It was the beginning of scratching that spot on my back that was bugging me.

I kept at it and the irritation went away. I enjoyed the process and found healing for myself as I wrote down stories that I had never shared with anyone except my therapist, my husband, or a few very close friends. I joined a life-writing class and found support and encouragement there. I finally decided that maybe I did have stories that other people  would want to read and made the commitment to write a book.

I had no idea where I was headed but I figured sooner or later I’d find the thread that was lost in my tangle of stories. Conflict grew. I wanted to spend time on writing and finishing my book before my “deathday” came along. But just a year earlier I had decided a new lifestyle was in order. I was exhausted. I needed to slow down, to be present in each moment. I was looking for a more fulfilling life. Could I do both at the same time?

I had spent too many years following the rat race, trying to do too much, too fast, in too little time. My lifelong belief that “when you choose to do something, you do it well or not at all,” was left in the dust by the side of the road. Every now and then I’d stop and ask myself, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” I never had an answer.

When my mother said, “Your life is a train wreck,” I denied it. But as I took on her care when her health deteriorated, I began to think that perhaps she was right. There was never enough time for anything I wanted to do. I grew more and more anxious. I was unhappy and angry. I blamed Mom for taking all of my time. I moved faster and faster so that I could take her to the doctor and expand my garden from a quarter an acre of flower beds to a half an acre. I longed for time to read, paint, take naps, and stare into space. The faster I went, the more angry and exhausted I became. That pattern pretty much continued until my mother died and I no longer had her to look after.

The first months were long and hard and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I couldn’t find anything satisfying to do. I was still moving too fast and beginning to hate the things I once loved doing. When the row of potato plants in the garden were ready to be harvested, it took all of the energy I could muster. All I wanted to do was cry. I knew something was terribly wrong. I felt like I was killing myself. Consumed in grief and anger, it took a few years for me to find myself again and begin to heal the losses I had endured.

I came to understand that throughout my life, I had given much of my power and energy to other people. Of course, I had a family. I wanted to be there for my growing children and to spend time with my husband. I had parents and two brothers I also cared about. I gave them all of myself, saving very little for me.

When my kids left home and I had more time, the pace of my life got faster. I had to make up for the time I’d lost. I had too many things I wanted to do. But mostly I still put others first. My worries about time took on a life of their own.

I brought it all to halt two years ago. No more. Finished. I decided to live each day as if it were my last. No more running around not knowing where I was going. I do only what calls to me. If it doesn’t, I don’t do it. “No” is a very important word. So is “Yes,” under the right circumstances.

I won’t be talked out of what I want unless there is a good reason and it makes sense. Those who are used to my giving way to them, may have a problem with all the above, but I feel much better. I’m learning to make choices that leave me satisfied rather than frustrated and resentful. Sometimes I choose the garden over my book.  Sometimes I take a few days off to play or rest. It’s a balancing act.

My book can’t be rushed. If I don’t finish it before I die, it’s still been a marvelous ride. I’m feeling the passion for living, loving, and writing. There is time enough for it all.