Hi. It’s been a while, eh? Probably I should just start a new blog, but some things need to get out of me, so here we are again. The first time I ever read my work in public, I refused the microphone because I didn’t want to hear my voice calling out. The second time, I sat on the floor. I feel like that now, sitting on the floor, making a public space intimate. Coming down and landing on the cold, hard earth. Getting my feet filthy.
I’ve been tenaciously self-obsessed lately. Health wise, I’m a carnival of nerves. The coolness of this Midwestern summer has been my saving grace with the kiddos (ages 6 and 7.5) home. Together, we’ve been mostly well. Siblings fight, so there’s that, but bike rides and walking the dog have given us different places to focus our energy. In June, my husband and I celebrated ten years of marriage while spending two nights alone in a Door County yurt. I’d like to take the kids and dog and spend a week, two weeks wandering the beaches and state parks. Maybe next summer. Maybe next time.
Why so morose, crazy lady? I don’t know. I think it has to do with making it so long through life and getting hit on the head with the reality of loss and time. That’s why I’m here after all. Getting those things out I can’t seem to put anywhere else. My husband listens, understands, suffers some of the same losses, some of his own. 2013 was ugly with death, but 2014 hasn’t given any respite. Not all loss is direct and I’m certainly not patting myself on the back while gurgling forth tears, but writing is my process, I guess. So many friends, you maybe, are having your own heavy things, and I want to carry you, so I’m trying to keep my mouth shut (if I can, because it all comes tumbling forward given the chance).
So here we are. I am. Writing down the things again, but this time, not to make a mark. Not to gather comments or readers or tally scores, just to write it down out in the open with the hard, dirty earth under my feet.