In Writing

I’ve been quiet on here of late. It’s not for lack of things to share, but for an insistent desire to pull out of the bonds of what’s been said and send out news, clarion and crisp.

And it’s a weird time. Not bad-weird, but a shifting, rattling moment in my life. It’s as if the pieces of me were gathered up, tossed in the air, and landed scattered in a new configuration. Maybe it’s the week in Italy, maybe it’s the evolving feelings about my children going off to college. Maybe it’s a thousand other things. But I am trying on new potential lives like gowns that only temporarily capture my interest in the looking glass. Perhaps I’ll move to a stately old country house. Maybe I’ll get an MFA. Maybe I’ll vagabond through Europe, or open a B&B to fund my writing life, or take a painting class. Or all of it. Or none of it. Possibilities are like overripe fruit, sharp in the jaw, exceeding anxieties and even desire. I don’t want it all, but I want all of it to be possible.

I don’t hold well with uncertainty, usually. I want to know. But this is an instant inherently of not knowing, of allowing all to settle like a mist with the hope that something will solidify in its time. I don’t know how this will all end or what things will look like when this feeling passes. Letting it be unformed like this is the only way to make sure the next step is true.

Until then I read, words like savory morsels. And I write, feelings bigger than my throat can call out. And I dream, every night in a new place, a junkyard, a runaway train, a helmet-less flight in space, places of grand defeats, epic betrayals and hopes more plentiful than stars. Something is going on, but the rope is still slipping through my hands, chafing me as I try to grasp it and hold on, catching on to the tail of this comet.

Which is to say, loves, that I am grateful you check in here every once in a while, and I want to do right by you and muse about what I normally muse about, but today I don’t know how. And yesterday I didn’t either. I am sick to death of politics, and bored of my own foibles, and my moments aren’t shaping themselves into amusing anecdotes. Tomorrow this may all change. Who knows? But this is not an unpleasant place to be in this moment, this sea of all that could be, this soul full of gratitude for what is, and a heart full of love for what will be. Thank you, as always, for reading.

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