Instead of worrying that my grandfathers’ feuding and conflicting voices would be thundering in my blood this past week, I should have been hoping for what has happened:
That I would hear only one voice and that it would be mine.
Which is what has happened, to a small degree.
Instead of a restless week, it has been a restful one. There is more difference there than a casual look at the words would signify.
Enough rest that all the yammering voices in my head could silence themselves. The ones that say “You should be doing this” and “You should be doing that.”
The voice I’ve heard is the one that says, “You could sit right here and look at the bay. You could write this. You could cook that. You could take a walk. You could sleep now, if you’re tired.”
I don’t know that I want to go home.
I like hearing one voice. One voice that is all my own and tells me what is possible if am quiet and there is peace.