It's funny how little I feel like writing these days. Funny. And disturbing to me. The writing has always been the thing that keeps me from feeling as if I am falling through the arms of the universe to the vast nothingness below. And I'm not sure why it is, this reluctance to write. Do I feel as if I have nothing to say? Nothing new to say? Am I censoring myself too much to make the writing feel genuine? Not censoring myself enough?
It's a fine line, that one, between too much revealing and not enough. I cringe sometimes when I read the things people write, especially if the writer's children may be reading those things. This may be wrong-thinking, I may have become a prude in my old age or may have always been one, but still, I admit, I do believe that there are things about their parents which children just don't need to be enlightened to. I have always tried to be honest with my own kids about my life, to a degree, but there are things that they just don't want to hear, just as there are things about their lives which are none of my business and which I don't want to hear. I love that we can joke about a lot of subjects which were necessarily off-limits (in my house, at least) when they were young but which we can giggle about and relate to with each other now. But even still, there are other people involved and there is a part of me which feels quite strongly that at least when we are discussing sex, that it is a thing which is shared by two people (well, in most cases, not always) and part of the bond of it is the keeping of it within the relationship.
This is ours. It belongs to no one else.
Not in word or deed.
But sex isn't the only thing I feel shy or resistant to writing about. We all, I think, keep certain things to ourselves. Things we may not be proud of or things we are too afraid to say out loud lest they be taken from us or dreams that we may have which seem too farfetched or ridiculous or...whatever...to admit to. Sometimes it's even a matter of not writing about things because if we said them out loud they might sound like bragging. And that is our right, you know. Just as Johnny Depp does not owe the world details about his personal life, neither do we.
These blogs, once so popular, are becoming less and less so as people move to even quicker and less complicated (emotionally and literarily, at least) outlets for sharing: to Facebook and Instagram and whatever else there is now. Snapchat? I don't know a thing about that. But still- I feel that it is a huge pleasure and an honor to be able to read whatever thoughts we may be given by others. Things which touch the incredibly painful, the incredibly joyful, the hopeful, the despairing, the very, very real.
And sometimes I think it is enough that we who do continue to blog, paint in the outlines as best we can and allow others to take what they can from it, to fill in their own details, to fill the spaces we leave with their stories and hopes and dreams and shames and blessings and deeds and thoughts.
Isn't that, in a way, what poetry is?
We all have such different styles. We all come to the page with different needs and beliefs and interests and experiences.
Especially the experiences.
And for me, one of the grandest things about the community I have found here is discovering that although so many of us may have experienced different things, at heart, we are so much the same. And that we have so much to learn from each other.
But in the meantime, as some of us may struggle with this need to write, this need to communicate, this need to share it all, it is so easy to simply say, "Today I did this and I did that," and maybe even to drop a feeling about it all here and there, and then to move on.
I feel as if I have been doing that lately.
And it doesn't make me happy and I don't know that it makes anyone else happy either.
Today I went to town and met up with my daughters at the mall and we did have fun. Even if it was the mall. And for me, it was mostly the fact that I was out in public with my beautiful girls and two of their babies and we laughed and were silly.
To see how my children love each other and get along so well. To know that despite my constant grinchy harping about the mall and how much I hate it, they love me too. To play with the babies, to pass them from one to the other, to make them laugh in their strollers.
To make them try on ridiculous things.
Lord knows I've done my job and yet, there is that part of me which wants to do more, even if that more is nothing but loving and loving and loving.
Maybe that is the most important.
I don't know. I don't know much and as I grow older, I know even less but that which I am sure of, I grow more sure of every day.
So, well, there you go. Some thoughts, some pictures.
Here I am. Or my words, at least. Fill in the details as you wish.
And I'd like to quote something that Emily Dickinson, that homebody poet, said that a good friend of mine sent me yesterday.
"To live is so startling that it leaves little time for anything else."
Absolutely. And which requires (in my case) a lot of naps. And which, for some reason, I feel I must write about.